THE  VANISHING 
*    POINT    * 


CONINGSBY'DAWSON 


J 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


The 
Vanishing   Point 

cA  {Modern 


BOOKS  BY  MR.  DAWSON 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 

THE  KINGDOM  ROUND  THE  CORNER 

THE  GARDEN  WITHOUT  WALLS 

SLAVES  OF  FREEDOM 

THE  RAFT 

LAST  CHANCE  RIVER 

THE  ROAD  TO  AVALON 

SHORTER  STORIES 

THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  —  Illustrations  by  Stella  Langdale 
THE   SEVENTH   CHRISTMAS  —  Illustrations   by   Edmund 

Dulac 
THE  UNKNOWN  COUNTRY  —  Illustrations  by  W.  C.  Rice 

WAR  BOOKS 

CARRY  ON:  LETTERS  IN  WAR-TIME 

THE  GLORY  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

OUT  TO  WIN:  THE  STORY  OF  AMERICA  IN  FRANCE 

LIVING  BAYONETS:  A  RECORD  OF  THE  LAST  PUSH 

THE  TEST  OF  SCARLET:  A  ROMANCE  OF  REALITY 

POEMS 

FLORENCE  ON  A  CERTAIN  NIGHT 
THE  WORKER  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


A  white  streak — like  the  finger  of  conscience  pointing  at  Santa. 


The 
Vanishin  g  Point 


•BY 


CONINGSBY  DAWSON 

Author  of  "The  Kingdom  Round  the  Corner," 
"The  Garden  Without  Walls,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 
JAMES  MONTGOMERY  FLAGG 


NEW  YORK 


MCMXX1I 


Copyright,  1922,  by  Cosmopolitan  Book 
Corporation-All  rights  reserved,  including 
that  of  translation  into  foreign  languages, 
including  the  Scandinavian. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT  1 3 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF  56 

CHAPTER  III 

HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE  96 

CHAPTER  IV 

HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME  1 35 

CHAPTER  V 
THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  1 75 

CHAPTER  VI 
THE  ESCAPE  2 1 6 


266 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  VANISHING  POINT  314 


THE  ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  white  steak — like  the  finger  of  conscience  pointing 

at  Santa  Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

Tears   of  horror  sprang   into  her   China-blue   eyes. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  kill  you."  129 

As  he  stumbled  towards  them,  Santa  uttered  a  nerv 
ous  cry  and  turned  1  78 

It  was  like  a  triumph  at  the  opera  328 


"When  you  gaze  up  a  railroad  track," 

sky,  "there's  always  a  point  in  the  infinite 
distance  where,  just  before  they  vanish,  the  par 
allel  rails  seem,  to  join.  If  a  train  were  ever  to 
reach  that  point  it  would  mean  death. 

"Life's  lifye  that — a  tracJf  along  which  we 
travel  on  the  parallel  rails  of  possibility  and  de 
sire.  The  <ure  of  the  idealist  is  to  overtake  the 
illusion,  where  possibility  and  desire  seem  to 
merge,  and  the  safety  of  the  journey  ends." 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 


CHAPTER  THE  FIRST 


THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    A    PATRIOT 


RINCE  ROGOVICH !    Prince  Rogovich !" 

Staring  up  at  the  clammy  wall  of  the  liner, 
blanched  by  searchlights,  against  which  the  little  tug 
bumped  and  jostled,  Philip  Hindwood  could  hear  the 
Prince's  name  being  shouted  in  staterooms,  along 
decks  and  passageways. 

It  had  been  midnight  when  they  had  drifted  like  a 
gallivanting  hotel,  all  portholes  ablaze,  into  the  star 
lit  vagueness  of  Plymouth  Harbor.  The  Ryndam 
did  not  dock  there;  she  only  halted  long  enough  to 
put  off  the  English  passengers  and  to  drop  the  Eng 
lish  mail.  There  had  been  three  passengers  to  land, 
of  whom  Hindwood  had  been  the  first ;  the  rest  were 
disembarking  at  Boulogne  or  Rotterdam.  They  had 
been  met  just  outside  the  harbor  by  the  tug,  and  the 
transshipping  of  the  mail  had  immediately  com 
menced.  The  last  bag  had  been  tossed  over  the  side ; 
the  immigration  officials  had  completed  their  inspec- 


14  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

tion.  Santa  Gorlof,  the  second  passenger  for  Eng 
land,  radiantly  smiling  above  her  sables,  had  come 
down  the  gangplank.  It  was  for  the  third  passenger 
that  the  liner  delayed  and  the  tug  still  waited. 
"Prince  Rogovich!  Prince  Rogovich!" 
The  cries  were  becoming  more  insistent  and  im 
patient.  They  broke  on  the  stillness  with  the 
monotony  of  despair.  To  judge  by  the  sound,  every 
soul  aboard  the  liner  had  taken  up  the  search,  from 
the  firemen  in  the  stoke-hole  to  the  Marconi  men  on 
the  top  deck.  Even  the  thud  of  the  engines  seemed 
ominous,  like  the  pounding  of  a  heart  stifled  with 
foreboding.  Across  the  velvety  expanse  of  water, 
as  though  they  had  a  secret  they  were  trying  to  com 
municate,  shore  lights  winked  and  twinkled.  They 
seemed  to  be  signaling  the  information  that,  no 
matter  how  long  the  search  was  maintained,  Prince 
Rogovich  would  not  be  found  that  night. 


II 


Except  for  this  last  disturbing  incident,  it  had 
been  a  pleasant  voyage — the  most  pleasant  Philip 
Hindwood  could  remember.  They  had  left  New 
York  in  the  brilliant  clearness  of  blue  September 
skies.  The  clear  blueness  had  followed  them.  The 
slow-going,  matronly  Ryndam  had  steamed  on  an 
even  keel  through  seas  as  tranquil  and  reflective  as 
the  proverbial  mill-pond.  Her  company  had  been 
dull,  consisting  mainly  of  American  drummers  and 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT       15 

Dutch  Colonials  returning  from  Java.  But  he  had 
no  grounds  for  complaint ;  he  had  chosen  her  for  her 
dullness.  He  had  wanted  to  lay  up  a  store  of  rest 
before  plunging  into  the  strenuous  excitements  which 
were  the  purpose  of  his  journey. 

He  had  gone  aboard  her  in  an  unsociable  frame  of 
mind,  determined  to  talk  to  nobody;  the  success 
of  his  errand  depended  on  his  silence.  He  believed 
that  he  was  half  a  year  ahead  of  the  times.  When 
his  rivals  had  caught  up  to  where  he  was  at  present, 
he  would  have  made  himself  a  world  power  and  dic 
tator. 

But  the  dullness  of  the  ship's  company  had  ex 
ceeded  expectations.  Because  of  this  he  had  broken 
his  compact  and  allowed  his  privacy  to  be  invaded  by 
two  vivid  personalities.  The  first  had  been  Prince 
Rogovich — the  second,  Santa  Gorlof. 

Prince  Rogovich  had  evidently  boarded  the  ship 
with  precisely  the  same  intentions  as  himself.  All  his 
meals  had  been  served  in  his  stateroom;  it  had  not 
been  until  the  evening  of  the  third  day  that  he  had 
appeared  on  deck.  He  was  a  man  of  commanding 
height,  lean  of  hip  and  contemptuous  of  eye,  with  the 
disquieting,  haughty  reticence  of  an  inscrutable 
Pharaoh.  There  was  something  alluring  and  orien 
tal  about  the  man,  at  once  sinister  and  charming. 
Behind  his  silky  black  beard  he  hid  a  face  which  was 
deathly  white ;  its  pallor  was  not  of  ill-health,  but  of 
passion.  It  was  easy  to  believe  all  the  rumors  about 
him,  both  as  regarded  his  diabolical  cleverness  and 
his  sensual  cruelty.  His  enemies  were  legion.  Even 


16  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

among  his  countrymen  he  could  count  few  friends, 
although  he  was  reckoned  their  greatest  patriot.  In 
Poland  he  was  suspected  as  much  as  he  was  admired, 
and  was  accused  of  intriguing  in  order  that  he  might 
set  up  a  throne  for  himself.  The  object  of  his 
flying  visit  to  America  had  been  to  consult  financial 
magnates  on  the  advisability  of  floating  an  interna 
tional  loan  in  the  interests  of  Poland.  There  were 
men  the  world  over  and  in  Russia  especially,  who 
would  have  paid  a  king's  ransom  for  advance  infor 
mation  as  to  what  answer  the  financiers  had 
returned. 

Though  Hindwood  would  not  have  claimed  as 
much,  he  and  the  Prince  were  two  of  a  kind,  equally 
magnificent  in  their  dreams,  equally  relentless  in 
their  means  of  realization,  and  equally  insatiable  in 
their  instinct  for  conquest.  Their  difference  lay  in 
the  fact  that  the  Polish  aristocrat  had  already  at 
tained  the  goal  toward  which  the  self-made  American 
was  no  more  than  striving. 

Their  first  meeting  had  happened  in  the  early 
hours  of  the  morning.  Hindwood,  being  unable  to 
sleep,  had  partly  dressed  and  gone  on  deck.  There, 
in  the  grayness  of  the  dawn,  he  had  espied  a  tall 
figure  slowly  pacing,  accompanied  by  a  snow-white 
Russian  wolfhound.  It  was  the  remarkable  grace  of 
the  man  that  had  first  held  him,  his  faculty  for  still 
ness,  his  spectral  paleness,  his  padded  tread.  But 
the  moment  he  had  approached  him,  the  sense  of  his 
grace  had  been  obscured  by  an  atmosphere  of  men 
ace.  So  sinister  was  his  beauty  that  it  had  required 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT       17 

an  effort  to  pass  him  twice.  Secretly  Hindwood  had 
observed  him.  He  was  like  his  hound,  treacherously 
languid,  insolently  fastidious,  and  bred  to  the  point 
of  emaciation.  But  his  languor  was  the  disguise  of  a 
hidden  fierceness,  which  betrayed  itself  in  his  red, 
curved  lips  and  the  marble  coldness  of  his  stare.  It 
was  at  the  third  time  of  passing,  when  he  had  all  but 
gone  by  him,  that  he  had  heard  his  name  spoken. 

"Mr.  Hindwood."  Then,  as  he  had  turned, 
"You're  the  famous  railroad  expert.  Am  I  right? 
It's  fortunate  we  should  have  met.  I  missed  you  in 
America.  So  you,  too,  are  among  the  sleepless  !'* 

Then  and  there  had  started  the  first  of  those  amaz 
ing  conversations,  which  had  held  Hindwood  fasci 
nated  for  the  remainder  of  the  voyage.  It  had  made 
no  difference  that  in  his  heart  he  had  almost  hated  the 
man — hated  his  ruthlessness,  his  subtlety,  his  pol 
ished  immorality ;  the  moment  he  commenced  to  talk, 
he  surrendered  to  his  spell.  Their  encounters  had 
taken  place  for  the  most  part  between  midnight  and 
sunrise.  To  be  his  companion  was  like  eavesdrop 
ping  on  the  intimate  counsels  of  all  the  cabinets  of 
Europe  or  like  reading  your  daily  paper  a  year 
before  it  was  published  for  the  rest  of  mankind.  On 
matters  which  did  not  concern  him  the  Prince  could 
be  brilliantly  confessional ;  indiscretion  was  the  bait 
with  which  he  lured  his  victims  to  reveal  themselves. 
The  secrets  which  were  his  own  he  kept.  Never  once 
did  he  drop  a  hint  that  would  indicate  the  success  or 
failure  of  his  recent  mission.  The  single  time  that 
Santa  Gorlof  had  asked  him  point-blank,  his  dark 


18  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

eyes  had  become  focusless  as  opals,  and  his  white 
face,  under  its  silky  covering  of  beard,  unnoticing 
and  sphinx-like.  It  was  then  that  Hindwood  had 
recognized  the  resemblance  to  Pharaoh  in  his  tyran 
nic  immobility  and  silence. 

And  Santa  Gorlof !  There  was  a  woman — myste 
rious,  exotic,  well-nigh  mythical!  Compared  with 
her  the  Prince  was  an  open  book.  From  the  start 
she  had  made  no  attempt  to  explain  herself,  had  re 
ferred  neither  to  her  past  nor  her  future,  had  offered 
no  credentials.  She  had  imposed  herself  on  Hind- 
wood  like  a  goddess  who  expected  to  be  worshiped. 
She  had  swept  him  off  his  feet,  beaten  aside  his 
caution,  and  reached  his  heart  before  he  was  aware. 

But  was  it  his  heart?  How  often,  in  the  past 
few  days,  he  had  asked  himself  that  question!  He 
didn't  want  to  believe  that  it  was  his  heart.  He  was  a 
man  who  rode  alone ;  his  aloneness  was  the  reason  for 
his  swiftness.  He  had  been  tricked  once  by  a  woman. 
That  was  when  he  was  a  boy ;  now  he  was  a  man  near- 
ing  forty.  She  had  cheated  him  so  cruelly  that, 
though  she  had  been  dead  many  years,  the  bitterness 
still  rankled.  Behind  the  beauty  of  all  women  his 
skepticism  detected  the  shallow  loveliness  of  the  one 
false  woman  who  had  stolen  his  idealism,  that  she 
might  trample  on  it. 

He  did  not  love  Santa.  He  had  assured  himself 
a  thousand  times  that  he  did  not  love  her.  She  was 
too  dangerous,  too  incalculable.  He  had  spent  long 
hours  of  wakeful  nights  in  completing  the  inventory 
of  her  bad  points.  And  yet,  while  he  had  been  with 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT       19 

her,  his  veins  had  run  fire ;  while  he  had  been  apart 
from  her,  all  his  pleasures  had  seemed  tasteless. 
Who  was  she?  Whence  had  she  come?  Whither  was 
she  going?  What  had  been  her  business  on  the 
Ryndam,  and  what  had  Prince  Rogovich  known 
about  her?  The  Prince  had  known  something — 
something  which  had  given  him  power  over  her.  At 
a  glance  from  him,  her  caprice  had  vanished  and  she 
had  become  downcast  as  a  child.  He  had  muttered 
a  few  unintelligible  words,  probably  in  Polish,  and 
her  pride  had  crumbled. 

Hindwood  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  these  signs 
of  a  secret  understanding.  It  had  been  he  who  had 
introduced  them.  It  had  been  Santa  who  had  con 
fessed  to  curiosity  about  the  Prince  and  had  begged 
for  the  introduction.  The  moment  he  had  made 
them  acquainted,  they  had  seemed  to  become  de 
lighted  with  each  other's  company — so  delighted 
that  there  had  been  times  when  he  himself  had  felt 
excluded.  A  half-humorous  rivalry  for  Santa's 
favors  had  sprung  up  between  the  Prince  and  him 
self.  This  atmosphere  of  jealousy  had  been  accen 
tuated  by  the  behavior  of  the  wolfhound;  Santa's 
mere  approach  had  been  sufficient  to  rouse  him  into 
fury.  He  had  become  so  dangerous  that  he  had  had 
to  be  sent  below  whenever  she  was  present. 

And  yet,  despite  her  manifest  efforts  to  hold  the 
Prince  enchanted,  behind  his  back  she  had  expressed 
the  most  vigorous  aversion.  She  had  spoken  of  his 
reputation  for  treachery  and  the  whispers  that  went 
the  rounds  of  his  heartlessness  toward  women.  Dur- 


20  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

ing  the  final  days  of  the  voyage  she  had  partly  atoned 
for  this  inconsistency  by  appealing  to  Hindwood  to 
protect  her  against  the  Prince's  far  too  pressing 
attention.  She  had  declared  herself  to  be  in  some 
kind  of  danger — though  what  kind,  whether  moral 
or  physical,  she  had  left  him  to  conjecture.  She 
had  rather  flattered  him  by  her  appeal ;  nevertheless, 
he  had  been  considerably  surprised  to  observe  how 
little  interest  she  had  still  displayed  in  protecting 
herself.  During  the  whole  of  that  last  day,  while 
they  had  been  approaching  the  white  line  of  Cornish 
coast,  she  had  scarcely  devoted  to  him  a  glance  or 
a  word ;  every  minute  she  had  spent  with  His  High 
ness,  whom  she  professed  to  regard  with  so  much 
terror.  She  had  created  the  impression  of  employing 
every  trick  at  her  disposal  in  a  frantic  attempt  to 
secure  him  as  her  conquest. 

If,  as  many  of  the  passengers  had  asserted,  the 
presence  of  Santa  Gorlof  and  the  Prince  on  the  same 
boat  had  been  no  accident,  then  what  had  been  the 
object  of  their  elaborately  planned  deception?  Were 
they  lovers  who  had  chosen  this  secret  method  of 
traveling  in  order  to  avoid  a  scandal?  Or  was  she 
one  of  the  man}7  women  whom  he  was  reported  to 
have  abandoned,  who  had  seized  the  leisure  of  an 
Atlantic  voyage  as  an  opportunity  for  reinstating 
herself  in  his  affection? 

As  Hindwood  listened  in  the  darkness  to  the 
Prince's  name  being  shouted  and  waited  for  the  tug 
to  cast  off,  the  surmise  strengthened  into  certainty 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT       21 

that  he  had  been  the  dupe  of  a  piece  of  play-acting, 
the  purpose  of  which  he  could  not  fathom. 


Ill 

"Philip !" 

He  had  been  so  absorbed  in  his  thoughts  that  he 
had  not  noticed  how  she  had  stolen  up  behind  him. 
Without  removing  his  arms  from  the  rail,  he  turned 
slowly  and  surveyed  her. 

An  enviable  woman!  And  her  age?  Perhaps 
thirty.  She  was  probably  a  Slav — either  Russian  or 
Polish.  Her  face  was  smooth  as  marble,  high  cheek- 
boned  and  golden  in  complexion.  Her  eyes  were 
almond-shaped,  heavy-lidded,  and  of  the  palest  gray. 
Her  lips  were  passionate  and  always  a  little  parted, 
revealing  a  line  of  perfect  whiteness  like  a  streak  of 
snow  between  the  curling  edges  of  two  rose-petals. 
But  it  was  her  hair  that  was  her  glory — abundant 
as  night,  blue-black  as  steel,  and  polished  as  metal. 
She  wore  it  simply,  gathered  back  from  her  forehead 
and  caught  in  a  loose  knot,  low  against  her  neck. 
There  was  an  air  of  indefinable  aristocracy  about 
her;  perhaps  it  was  the  slightness  of  her  figure  and 
the  alert  composure  of  her  carriage.  And  then  there 
was  a  touch  of  the  exotic,  wistfully  sad,  yet  exceed 
ingly  mocking.  Like  so  many  Slavs,  behind  the  Eu 
ropean  there  lurked  a  hint  of  the  Asiatic.  If  her 
eyes  had  been  darker,  she  might  easily  have  passed  for 
a  Hindoo  princess. 


22  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

Her  fascination,  quite  apart  from  her  beauty,  lay 
in  the  fact  that  she  was  so  ravishingly  feminine.  To 
be  a  woman  was  her  proud  profession — and  in  this 
again  she  was  Asiatic.  What  hours  she  must  have 
spent  over  pampering  her  body !  She  was  sleek 
and  groomed  as  a  race-horse.  Physically  she  was 
the  last  word  in  feminine  perfection.  Her  string 
of  pearls  was  worth  more  than  most  men  earn  in  a 
lifetime.  Her  sables  represented  the  year's  income  of 
a  millionaire.  There  was  no  item  of  her  attire  that 
was  not  sumptuous  and  that  had  not  been  acquired 
regardless  of  expense.  To  have  achieved  her  luxu 
riance  of  beauty  must  have  dissipated  a  fortune. 
Whose  fortune?  Surely,  not  hers  ! 

His  mind  was  haunted  by  misgivings  as  he  watched 
her.  He  had  so  nearly  allowed  himself  to  care  for 
her.  It  was  only  her  lightness  and  willful  inconsider- 
ateness  that  had  prevented.  But  now  that  he  had 
been  prevented,  her  employment  of  his  Christian 
name  struck  him  as  singularly  inappropriate.  It 
made  him  suspect  a  trap.  It  put  him  in  a  mood  to 
interpret  any  tenderness  on  her  part  as  strategy, 
as  a  signal  that  something  was  wanted. 

While  he  eyed  her  in  silence,  she  drew  nearer  and 
leaned  across  the  rail.  Her  shoulder  pressed  him. 
He  was  aware  of  the  tingling  sensation  of  her 
warmth,  like  a  little  hand  caressing.  He  caught  her 
fragrance,  secret  and  somnolent  as  the  magic  of 
hidden  rose-gardens  in  Damascus. 

She  spoke.  Her  voice  was  deep  and  foreign;  it 
seemed  too  deep  to  be  pent  in  so  slight  a  body.  It 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT       23 

was  harsh  in  many  of  its  tones,  as  though  there  had 
been  times  when  it  had  been  parched  with  thirst.  It 
conjured  visions  of  caravans  creeping  across  molten 
deserts.  It  was  hypnotic,  barbaric.  In  listening  to 
it,  he  lost  sight  of  the  exquisite  sophistication  of  her 
appearance.  His  imagination  reclothed  her,  loosen 
ing  her  hair,  veiling  her  face,  shrouding  her  in  a 
robe  of  gold  and  saffron,  slipping  sandals  on  her 
feet  and  making  her  ankles  tinkle  with  many  bangles. 

"You  don't  like  me  any  more.  Is  it  not  so?"  she 
questioned  softly.  "My  master  is  offended." 

He  shook  himself  irritably,  as  though  he  were 
flinging  off  the  yoke  of  her  attraction.  "I'm  not 
offended.  I  was  thinking." 

"About  what?" 

"Prince  Rogovich." 

"And  why  should  my  master  be  thinking  of  Prince 
Rogovich?" 

He  leaned  still  further  across  the  rail  in  an  instinc 
tive  effort  to  avoid  her.  There  was  seduction  in 
the  feigned  humility  with  which  she  addressed  him, 
as  though  he  were  a  Pasha  and  she  a  slave-girl. 

"Because,"  he  said,  "it  would  be  indecent  for  me 
to  be  thinking  of  anything  else.  He  may  be  dead. 
There's  no  knowing.  This  time  last  night  I  could 
walk  and  talk  and  laugh  with  him.  He  was  full  of 
plans.  He  was  something  real  that  I  could  touch. 
To-night  he  has  vanished." 

"Vanished!"  She  repeated  the  word  with  a  sigh 
which  was  almost  of  contentment. 


24  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

"I  was  wondering,"  he  continued,  and  then  halted. 

"You  were  wondering?"  she  prompted. 

Drawing  himself  erect,  he  faced  her.  Her  banter 
ing  tone  had  roused  his  indignation.  Yet,  even  in  his 
revulsion,  he  thrilled  to  the  sweetness  of  her  luring 
eyes,  glinting  at  him  palely  through  the  shadows. 

"He  was  more  your  friend,  much  more  your  friend, 
than  mine,"  he  reproached  her.  "There's  probably 
been  a  tragedy.  Yet  you  don't  seem  to  care.  One 
might  even  believe  you  were  glad." 

"Not  glad.  Not  exactly."  She  spoke  smilingly, 
averting  her  eyes.  "But  as  for  caring — why  should 
I?" 

He  laughed  quietly.  "Yes,  why  should  you?  Why 
should  you  care  what  happens  to  any  man?" 

"But  I  hated  him,"  she  protested.  "He  had  given 
me  cause  to  hate  him." 

"You  had  a  strange  way  of  showing  it.  You  made 
yourself  most  amazingly  charming.  He  could  never 
have  guessed — no  one  could  ever  have  guessed  who 
watched  you  with  him,  that  you — " 

"Ah,  no.  Only  you  and  I — we  knew.  It  wasn't 
our  business  to  let  everybody  guess." 

Suddenly  she  seemed  to  divine  what  was  troubling 
him.  Darting  out  her  hand,  she  seized  his  wrist  in 
a  grip  of  steel.  That  such  strength  lay  hidden  in  so 
frail  a  hand  was  unexpected.  Her  attitude  instantly 
changed  to  one  of  coaxing. 

"You're  jealous.  Don't  be  jealous.  It  had  to  be, 
and  it's  ended.  In  a  sense  it  was  for  your  sake  that 
it  had  to  happen." 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT      25 

Leisurely  he  freed  himself,  bending  back  her  fingers 
and  taking  pleasure  in  demonstrating  that  his 
strength  was  the  greater. 

"I've  no  idea  what  you're  talking  about,"  he  said 
coldly.  "Your  feelings  toward  Prince  Rogovich  are 
none  of  my  concern.  If,  by  the  thing  that  had  to 
happen,  you  refer  to  the  shameless  way  in  which  you 
made  love  to  him,  I  can  not  conceive  any  possible  set 
of  circumstances  that  would  make  it  necessary  for 
you  to  make  love  for  my  sake  to  another  man." 

He  had  turned  and  was  sauntering  away  from  her. 
She  went  after  him  breathlessly,  arresting  him  once 
more  with  the  secret  strength  of  her  slim,  gloved 
hand. 

"To  make  love  to  him !    I  didn't  mean  that." 

What  it  was  that  she  had  meant,  she  had  no  time 
to  tell.  The  siren  of  the  Ryndam  burst  into  an  ear- 
splitting  blast,  impatient,  repeated,  and  agonizing. 
At  the  signal  gangplanks  were  withdrawn  from  the 
tug  and  run  back  into  dark  holes  in  the  side  of  the 
liner.  Ropes  were  cast  off  and  coiled.  Engines  be 
gan  to  quicken  and  screws  to  churn.  The  narrow 
channel  which  had  separated  the  two  vessels  com 
menced  to  widen.  On  the  Ryndam  the  band  struck 
up.  Above  its  lively  clamor  the  sound  of  Prince 
Rogovich's  name  being  shouted  could  still  be  heard. 
As  Hindwood  stared  up  at  the  floating  mammoth, 
scanning  the  tiers  of  faces  gaping  down,  even  at  this 
last  moment  he  half  expected  to  see  the  Prince  come 
rushing  out.  Instead  a  sight  much  stranger  met  his 
eyes. 


26  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

The  tug  was  backing  away  to  get  sufficient  clear 
ance  to  turn  in  the  direction  of  land.  She  had  not 
quite  cleared  herself,  when  signs  of  frenzied  disturb 
ance  were  noticeable  on  the  promenade  deck.  The 
musicians  were  dropping  their  instruments  and  flee 
ing.  Passengers  were  glancing  across  their  shoulders 
and  scattering  in  all  directions.  In  the  vacant  space 
which  their  stampede  had  created,  the  infuriated  head 
of  the  Prince's  wolfhound  reared  itself.  For  a 
couple  of  seconds  he  hung  there  poised,  glaring 
down;  then  suddenly  he  seemed  to  descry  the  object 
he  was  searching.  Steadying  himself,  he  shot 
straight  out  into  the  gulf  of  blackness.  In  a  white 
streak,  like  the  finger  of  conscience  pointing,  he  fell, 
just  missing  the  deck  of  the  tug,  where  Hindwood 
and  his  companion  were  standing.  He  must  have 
struck  the  side,  for  as  he  reached  the  water  he  sank. 

It  was  over  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell,  but 
it  had  seemed  to  Hindwood  that  as  the  hound  had 
leaped,  his  burning  gaze  had  been  fixed  on  Santa 
Gorlof. 


IV 


She  made  no  sound  while  the  danger  lasted,  but 
the  moment  the  hurtling,  white  body  had  fallen  short, 
she  rushed  to  the  side,  peering  down  into  the  yeasty 
scum  of  churned-up  blackness.  She  was  speaking 
rapidly  in  a  foreign  language,  laughing  softly  with 
malicious  triumph  and  shaking  a  small,  clenched 
fist  at  the  night.  It  was  thus  that  a  woman  at 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT      27 

Jezreel  must  have  looked,  when  she  painted  her  face 
and  tired  her  hair  and  leaned  out  of  her  palace  win 
dow,  jeering  at  the  charioteer  who  had  been  sent  to 
slay  her.  The  passionate  eloquence  of  Santa's  ges 
tures  thrilled  as  much  as  it  shocked  Hindwood;  it 
made  her  appearance  of  lavish  modernity  seem  a 
disguise.  And  yet  he  admired  her  more  than  ever; 
it  was  her  courage  he  admired.  Putting  his  arm 
about  her  roughly, 

"Enough,"  he  said.     "You're  coming  inside." 

She  darted  back  her  head  in  defiance  like  a  serpent 
about  to  strike.  Then  recognition  of  him  dawned 
in  her  eyes.  She  ceased  to  struggle  and  relaxed 
against  his  breast.  It  was  only  for  a  second. 
Slipping  her  arm  submissively  into  his, 

"Very  well.    If  you  say  so,"  she  whispered. 

Guiding  her  steps  across  the  slippery  deck,  he 
pushed  open  the  door  of  a  little  saloon  and  entered. 
The  atmosphere  was  blue  with  wreaths  of  smoke  and 
heavy  with  the  smell  of  tobacco.  At  a  table  in  the 
center,  beneath  a  swinging  lamp,  the  immigration 
officers  were  dealing  cards  and  settling  their  debts 
with  pennies.  They  were  too  absorbed  in  their  petty 
gambling  to  notice  what  was  going  on  about  them. 
In  a  corner,  outside  the  circle  of  light,  he  found  a 
trunk  and  ordered  her  to  sit  down.  The  meekness 
with  which  she  complied  flattered  his  sense  of  her 
dependence.  He  might  really  have  been  a  Pasha 
and  she  his  slave-girl. 

He  did  not  understand  her.  She  cozened  and 
baffled  him.  People  and  things  which  he  did  not  un- 


28  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

derstand  were  apt  to  rouse  his  resentment,  especially 
when  they  were  women.  His  distrust  of  the  sex  was 
inherent.  But  as  he  watched  this  woman  drooping 
in  the  shadows,  his  pity  came  uppermost.  She  was 
so  alone,  so  unprotected.  The  hour  was  late — long 
past  midnight.  Her  storm  of  emotion  had  exhausted 
her.  It  was  absurd  that  he  should  have  allowed 
himself  to  become  so  jealous.  He  could  never  have 
made  her  his  wife.  The  chances  were,  she  would  not 
have  accepted  him;  she  belonged  to  a  more  modish 
world.  And  if  she  had,  she  would  have  driven  him 
from  his  course  with  her  whims  and  tempests.  She 
would  have  wrecked  his  career  with  her  greed  for 
wealthy  trappings.  He  and  she  were  utterly  differ 
ent.  They  had  nothing  in  common  but  their  physical 
attraction. 

He  was  seeing  things  clearly.  With  each  fresh 
whiff  of  land,  affairs  were  regrouping  themselves  in 
their  true  perspective.  He  had  been  the  shuttlecock 
of  a  shipboard  flirtation.  He  had  magnified  in 
fatuation  into  a  grand  passion.  On  many  a  previous 
voyage  he  had  been  the  amused  spectator  of  just 
such  profitless  expenditures  of  sentiment.  And  here 
he  was,  a  victim  of  the  same  foolishness  !  The  futility 
of  the  ending  was  the  adventure's  condemnation. 
Ppebably  she  was  indulging  in  similar  reflections ! 
Within  an  hour  of  stepping  ashore  they  would  have 
lost  sight  of  each  other  forever.  After  so  much 
intimacy  and  misplaced  emotion,  they  would  walk 
out  of  each  other's  life  without  regret.  Partly  out 
of  curiosity,  but  more  out  of  courtesy,  he  seated 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT       29 

himself  beside  her  for  what  he  intended  should  be 
their  last  conversation. 

"What  happens  next?" 

She  clutched  her  furs  more  closely  about  her. 
"I  don't  know." 

"But  you  must  know,"  he  persisted.  "What  I 
meant  was,  where  is  your  destination?" 

"London."  Then  she  added  wearily,  "You  could 
have  discovered  by  examining  my  labels." 

Her  fatigue  made  him  the  more  determined  to  be 
helpful.  "I  didn't  ask  out  of  impertinence,  but  be 
cause  I  thought  it  would  be  London.  Probably 
there'll  be  no  train  to  London  to-night.  If  the 
Prince  had  been  with  us,  they'd  have  put  on  a  special, 
but  you  and  I  are  the  only  passengers,  and  neither 
of  us  is  sufficiently  important.  Besides,  after  this 
delay,  it'll  be  nearly  daylight  before  we  clear  the 
Customs." 

"Then  I'll  have  to  sleep  in  Plymouth." 

"Perhaps  you'll  be  met  by  friends  ?" 

He  had  no  sooner  hazarded  the  suggestion  than 
an  obvious  conjecture  flashed  through  his  mind. 
The  marvel  was  that  it  had  not  flashed  earlier. 
She  might  be  married.  If  the  conjecture  proved 
correct,  it  would  put  the  final  punishing  touch  of 
satire  to  this  wild-goose  romance. 

Sweeping  him  with  her  pale,  derisive  eyes, 
"Friends !"  she  murmured.  "You  may  set  your 
mind  at  rest.  I  shall  be  met  by  no  friends." 

After  that  there  was  silence,  a  silence  interrupted 
at  intervals  by  the  exclamations  of  the  players  as 


30  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

they  thumped  down  their  cards  and  raked  in  their 
pennies. 

For  relief  he  reverted  to  the  subject  uppermost 
in  both  their  minds.  "I  wonder  what  became  of 
him." 

"I  wonder."     Her  tone  betrayed  no  interest. 

"I've  been  trying  to  think  back,"  he  said,  "trying 
to  remember  when  last  I  saw  him." 

"Yes." 

"I  believe  I  last  saw  him  alive  just  after " 

She  spun  round,  as  though  jerked  on  wires. 
"Alive!  Who  suggests  that  he  isn't  alive?" 

"No  one.  I'm  the  first.  But  if  he  isn't  found 
by  to-morrow,  the  suggestion  will  be  on  the  lips  of 
all  the  world." 

"I  doubt  it." 

"You  do?"  Hindwood  smiled.  "Men  of  the 
Prince's  eminence  are  not  allowed  to  vanish  with 
out  a  stir.  I'm  only  hoping  that  you  and  I  are  not 
involved  in  it.  We  were  the  only  people  with  whom 
he  associated  on  the  voyage.  We're  likely  to  be 
detained  and  certain  to  be  questioned.  For  all  we 
know  the  air's  full  of  Marconi  messages  about  us 
at  this  moment." 

Her  face  had  gone  white.  "About  us  ?  What  had 
we  to  do  with  it?" 

"Nothing.  But  when  a  tragedy  of  this  sort 
occurs,  we're  all  liable  to  be  suspected." 

She  gazed  at  him  intently.  "Then  you  think 
there  was  a  tragedy?" 

"I  feel  sure  of  it.     It's  my  belief  that  he  either 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT      31 

fell  or  was  pushed  overboard.  Somewhere  out  there 
in  the  darkness  he's  bobbing  up  and  down.  It's 
almost  as  though  I  could  see  him.  I  couldn't  feel 
more  sure  if— 

She  shuddered  and  pressed  against  him.  "You're 
trying  to  frighten  me.  I  won't  be  frightened.  It's 
all  nonsense  what  you're  saying.  Why  should  any 
one  want  to  push  him  over?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  apologized.  "I  didn't  mean  to 
frighten  you.  Perhaps  we're  wasting  our  breath 
and  already  he's  been  found." 

"No,  but  why  should  any  one  want  to  push  him 
over?"  she  urged. 

"I  can't  answer  that.  But  he  v/asn't  liked.  One 
could  be  fascinated  by  his  personality,  but  one 
couldn't  like  him.  Take  yourself — weren't  you  tell 
ing  me  a  few  minutes  ago  how  intensely  you  hated 
him?" 

She  nodded.  "He  was  the  sort  of  man  every 
woman  had  the  right  to  hate."  After  a  pause  she 
faced  him,  completely  mistress  of  herself.  "When 
did  you  last  see  him?" 

"I'm  not  certain."  Hindwood  hesitated.  "As  far 
as  I  remember,  it  was  after  dinner  in  the  lounge. 
He  was  giving  some  instructions  about  his  baggage. 
When  did  you?" 

"After  dinner  in  the  lounge."  Her  eyes  met  his 
and  flickered.  "It  must  have  been  shortly  after 
eight,  for  I  spent  till  ten  in  my  stateroom  finishing 
my  packing." 

Before  she  had  made  an  end,  he  knew  that  she  had 


32  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

lied.  Several  times  after  dinner  he  had  walked  past 
her  stateroom,  hoping  for  a  last  encounter.  Her 
trunks  and  cases  had  been  piled  in  the  passage, 
already  locked  and  strapped.  He  had  tried  to  dis 
cover  from  the  stewardess  her  whereabouts  and  had 
been  told  that  since  dining  she  had  not  returned. 
He  had  gone  on  deck  in  search  of  her,  hunting 
everywhere.  It  must  have  been  shortly  after  ten 
that  he  had  come  across  two  shadowy  figures  in  the 
bows.  They  were  whispering  together.  They  might 
have  been  embracing.  The  man's  figure  had  been 
too  dim  for  him  to  identify,  but  he  could  have  sworn 
that  the  woman's  was  hers. 

He  had  reached  this  point  in  his  piecing  together 
of  evidence,  when  he  noticed  that  the  card-players 
were  pushing  back  their  chairs. 

Santa  touched  his  arm  gently.  "I  think  we're 
there." 

The  next  moment  the  soft  bump  of  the  tug  against 
the  piles  confirmed  the  news  of  their  arrival. 


It  began  to  look  as  if  all  hope  of  rest  would  have 
to  be  abandoned.  At  the  moment  of  landing  the 
dock  had  been  almost  festive.  There  had  been  a 
group  of  railway  officials,  mildly  beaming  and  fussily 
important,  who  had  approached  Hindwood  as  he 
stepped  ashore,  with  "Prince  Rogovich,  if  we  are 
not  mistaken?"  There  had  been  another  group  of 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT      33 

newspaper  reporters  who,  having  addressed  him  as 
"Your  Highness,"  and  having  discovered  their 
error,  had  promptly  turned  their  backs  on  him. 

There  had  been  a  Major  in  uniform,  with  a  mono 
cle  in  his  eye,  who  had  pranced  up,  tearing  off  a 
salute  and  announcing,  "I'm  detailed  by  the  For 
eign  Office,  your  Excellency." 

When  they  had  learned  that  the  Prince  had  un 
accountably  avoided  Plymouth,  their  atmosphere  of 
geniality  faded.  The  special  train,  which  was  to 
have  borne  him  swiftly  to  London,  was  promptly 
canceled.  Within  ten  minutes,  muttering  with  dis 
gust,  all  the  world  except  two  porters  had  dribbled 
off  into  the  night. 

In  the  waiting-room  where,  pending  the  inspection 
of  the  Customs  officers,  Hindwood  and  Santa  were 
ordered  to  remain,  their  reception  was  no  more  en 
livening.  At  first,  when  they  had  entered,  a  lunch- 
counter  had  been  spread,  gleaming  with  warmth  and 
light.  Before  mirrors,  girl  attendants  had  been 
self-consciously  reviewing  their  appearance  with 
smiles  of  brightest  expectation.  Their  expectancy 
had  been  quickly  dulled  by  the  news  of  the  Prince's 
non-arrival.  They  had  scarcely  spared  time  to  sup 
ply  the  wants  of  the  two  travelers  before  they  had 
started  to  close  up.  The  ticket  clerk  had  copied 
the  girls'  example.  As  he  had  pulled  down  the  shut 
ter  of  his  office  he  had  briefly  stated,  "No  train  till 
the  eight-thirty  in  the  morning." 

After  that  they  had  been  left — he  and  this  strange 
woman — in  the  draf  ty  gloom  of  the  ill-lighted  dock- 


34  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

station.  The  two  porters  had  huddled  down  and 
snored  among  the  baggage ;  Santa,  closing  her  eyes, 
had  appeared  to  join  them  in  their  slumbers. 

At  last  a  solitary  Customs  officer  had  arrived. 
He  volunteered  no  explanation  for  his  delay.  He 
was  evidently  newly  risen,  half  awake,  and  in  a 
mood  of  suppressed  irritation.  His  examination 
was  perfunctory.  Having  completed  his  barest 
duty,  he  likewise  made  his  exit.  It  was  then,  when 
all  their  troubles  seemed  ended,  that  the  porters  had 
informed  them  that  it  was  necessary  for  passengers 
to  see  their  luggage  weighed  and  personally  to 
supervise  its  being  loaded  in  the  van  for  London. 

Hindwood  turned  to  his  companion.  "You're 
tired.  You'd  better  be  off  to  bed.  I'll  see  this 
through  for  you." 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  he  had  complied  with 
all  formalities  and  was  free  to  seek  a  bed  himself, 
he  remembered  that  he  hadn't  inquired  where  she 
would  be  staying  and  that  he  .didn't  know  the  name 
of  a  hotel.  Wondering  where  he  should  sleep  and 
how  he  could  reach  her  with  the  receipts  for  her 
trunks,  he  wandered  out  into  the  yard  of  the  sta 
tion.  The  first  grayness  of  dawn  was  spreading. 
A  chill  was  in  the  air.  Behind  the  sepulchers  of 
muted  houses  a  cock  was  crowing.  He  gazed  up 
and  down.  Near  the  gate  a  horse-drawn  cab  was 
standing.  Its  lamp  burned  dimly,  on  the  point  of 
flickering  out.  The  driver  .sat  hunched  on  the  box ; 
the  horse  hung  dejectedly  between  the  shafts.  They 
both  slumbered  immovably. 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT      35 

Crossing  the  yard,  he  shook  the  man's  arm.  "Hi ! 
Wake  up.  I  want  you  to  drive  me  to  a  good  hotel." 

The  man  came  to  with  a  jerk.  "A  good  'otel! 
That's  wot  the  lady  wanted.  You  must  be  the 
gen'leman  I  wuz  told  to  wait  for." 

Hindwood  nodded.  "So  you've  driven  the  lady 
already !  Then  you'd  better  take  me  to  wherever 
you  took  her." 

He  had  opened  the  door  and  was  in  the  act  of 
entering  when  the  horse  started  forward,  making 
him  lose  his  balance.  As  he  stretched  out  his  hands 
to  steady  himself,  what  was  his  surprise  to  discover 
that  the  cab  was  already  tenanted ! 


VI 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

There  was  no  reply  to  his  apology.  He  repeated 
it  in  a  tone  of  more  elaborate  courtesy,  "I  beg  your 
pardon." 

When  he  was  again  greeted  with  silence,  he  added : 
"I  thought  it  was  empty.  I  didn't  do  it  on  purpose. 
I  hope  you're  not  hurt." 

In  the  mildewed  square  of  blackness,  rank  with 
the  smell  of  stables,  he  held  his  breath,  trying  to 
detect  whether  sleep  would  account  for  the  taci 
turnity  of  the  other  occupant.  He  could  detect 
nothing ;  all  lesser  sounds  were  drowned  in  the  rattle 
of  their  progress.  Groping,  he  felt  a  woman's  dress. 
Hollowing  his  hand  to  shade  the  flame,  he  struck  a 


36  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

match.  For  a  brief  moment  his  eyes  met  hers, 
opened  wide  and  gazing  at  him.  Instantly  she 
leaned  forward,  pursing  her  lips.  The  flame  went 
out. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this?"  He  had  been 
startled  and  spoke  with  sharpness. 

"There  was  only  one  cab,  so  I "  She  yawned 

luxuriously.  "So  I  waited.  I  didn't  want  to  lose 
you." 

It  was  his  turn  to  be  silent.  After  a  pause,  while 
she  gave  him  a  chance  to  reply,  she  continued: 
"You'd  have  been  stranded  if  I'd  taken  the  only 
cab.  And  then  I  didn't  want  to  lose  you.  Not  that 
losing  me  would  have  meant  anything  to  you — not 
now.  It  wouldn't,  would  it?" 

There  was  no  escape.  However  she  chose  to  ac 
cuse  him,  he  would  be  forced  to  listen.  But  it 
couldn't  be  far  to  the  hotel.  Speaking  reasonably, 
he  attempted  to  appease  her.  "I've  given  you  no 
occasion  for  supposing " 

She  laughed  softly.  "Don't  you  think  so?  On 
the  boat  you  were  burning  up  for  me.  You  were 
molten — incandescent.  Now  you're  dark  and  dank 
— through  with  me." 

She  caught  her  breath.  Though  he  could  not  see 
her,  he  knew  that  her  small,  clenched  fists  were 
pressed  against  her  mouth.  Again  she  was  speaking. 

"Why  is  it?  If  you'd  only  give  me  a  reason! 
While  I've  been  sitting  here  alone,  I've  kept  asking 
myself:  'Why  is  it?  Am  I  less  beautiful,  less  kind, 
less  good?  Does  he  think  that  he's  discovered  some- 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT      37 

thing  evil  about  me?  What  have  I  done  that  he 
should  have  changed  so  suddenly?' ' 

With  a  cry  of  pain,  she  turned.  "What  have 
I  done?  It's  just  that  you  should  tell  me.  If  you'll 
take  me  back,  I'll  be  anything  for  you.  I'll  try  so 
hard  to  be  more  beautiful." 

"You  couldn't  be  more  beautiful." 

It  was  said  without  enthusiasm.  The  suspicion 
still  possessed  him  that  she  was  play-acting.  Last 
evening  she  had  practiced  these  same  wiles  on  the 
man  who  had  vanished.  Did  she  intend  that  he 
should  vanish,  too?  It  was  horrible  that  he  should 
ask  himself  such  a  question,  and  yet  he  could  not 
rid  his  imagination  of  the  snow-white  hound,  plung 
ing  to  death  and  pointing  at  her  like  the  finger  of 
conscience.  The  happenings  of  that  night  had  been 
sufficiently  dramatic,  so  why  this  second  rehearsal? 
He  was  too  humble  in  his  self-esteem  to  believe 
that  his  own  attractions  could  account  for  such  a 
storm  of  passion. 

"Santa,  you're  exaggerating."  He  spoke  cau 
tiously.  "You  never  belonged  to  me.  Until  now 
you've  given  no  hint  that  you  wanted  to  belong  to 
me.  On  the  contrary,  you've  trifled  with  me  and 
shown  a  distinct  preference  for  another  man.  It's 
preposterous  for  you  to  talk  about  my  taking  you 
back  when  I  never  had  you.  We've  been  companions 
for  a  handful  of  hours.  We've  liked  being  together 
— at  least,  I  have.  But  to  create  such  a  scene  is 
absurd.  Nothing  warrants  it.  In  the  ordinary 
course  of  events,  our  liking  might  strengthen  into 


love — there's  DO  telling.  But  everything5!!  end  right 
here  and  now  if  you  force  matters.  What  d'you 
know  about  me?  About  you  I  know  even  less.  If 
any  one  were  to  ask  me,  I  couldn't  tell  him  whether 
you  were  a  Pole  or  a  Persian,  or  whether  you  were 
single,  divorced,  or  married.  I  haven't  the  least  idea 
of  your  social  standing  or  why,  while  appearing  so 
prosperous,  you  travel  without  a  maid  and  by  your 
self.  For  all  I  know " 

"A  man  needs  to  know  nothing  about  a  woman," 
she  interrupted,  "except  that  he  loves  her.  She 
might  be  a  thousand  things ;  if  he  loved  her,  none 
of  them  would  count.  If  she  were  bad,  he  would 
hope  to  make  her  good  with  his  own  goodness.  Men 
always  expect  women  to  do  that ;  why  shouldn't  a 
woman  expect  it  of  a  man?  If  you  loved  me — and 
you  did  love  me — no  matter  how  wicked  you  thought 
me,  even  though  you  believed  I'd  killed  some  one, 
you  wouldn't  care.  You'd  find  some  splendid  motive 
and  persuade  yourself  that  I'd  done  it  for  the  best." 

She  broke  off.  Then  she  added,  "Of  course,  I 
haven't." 

"Haven't!" 

"Haven't  killed  somebody." 

It  was  an  extraordinary  disclaimer — as  though  it 
were  always  within  the  bounds  of  possibility  that 
nice,  conventional  women  might  have  killed  some 
body.  She  had  said  it  as  casually  as  another  woman 
m'^ht  have  said,  "I  don't  powder,"  or  "I  don't 
smoke." 

He    scarcely    knew    whether    to    be    shocked    or 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT      39 

amused.  He  was  loath  to  take  her  seriously.  Be 
hind  the  thinning  darkness  he  was  trying  to  discover 
her  expression,  when  his  calmness  was  swept  away 
by  a  new  disturbance.  She  had  slipped  to  her  knees 
in  the  narrow  space.  By  the  dim  light  that  streaked 
the  panes  he  could  just  make  out  her  figure,  bowed 
against  him.  The  next  moment  her  tears  were  fall 
ing,  and  she  was  kissing  his  hands. 

"You  mustn't,  Santa.'* 

He  tried  to  withdraw  his  hands.  She  clung  to 
them.  Failing  in  that,  he  attempted  to  raise  her 
face.  She  kept  it  obstinately  averted.  The  bump 
ing  of  the  cab  on  the  uneven  paving  jostled  her 
against  him;  he  feared  lest  inadvertently  he  might 
bruise  her.  The  situation  was  grotesque.  It  stirred 
both  his  pity  and  his  anger.  If  this  were  play-act 
ing,  then  it  was  laughter  and  not  sobbing  that  was 
shaking  her.  But  if  her  grief  were  real 

At  that  thought  the  shy,  lonely  tenderness  of  the 
man  overwhelmed  him.  Here  at  last  was  a  fellow- 
creature  who  needed  his  affection.  She  was  so 
fragile,  so  capricious,  so  rapturous ! 

"Poor  Santa!  I  didn't  mean Somehow  I've 

hurt  you." 

She  didn't  speak,  but  ske  stayed  her  sobbing. 

<(Let  me  see  your  face." 

He  stooped  lower.  The  scent  of  her  hair  was  in 
his  nostrils.  His  reluctant  arms  went  about  her. 
Their  embrace  strengthened. 

With  a  moan  she  lifted  up  her  face,  white  and 


40  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

ghostly  as  the  dawn  that  was  all  about  them.     In  a 
frenzy  of  silent  longing  their  lips  met. 


VII 


With  a  jerk  the  cab  drew  up  against  the  pave 
ment.  Tossing  the  reins  on  the  horse's  back,  the 
driver  was  lumbering  down.  That  Santa  might 
have  time  to  compose  herself,  Hindwood  leaded 
quickly  out,  slamming  the  door  behind  him. 

"Where've  you  brought  us?" 

"It's  a  good  'otel,"  the  man  grumbled,  on  the  de 
fensive,  staring  at  the  gray  cliff  of  shrouded  win 
dows.  "It  was  a  good  'otel  you  wanted.  And  then 
it's  h'opposite  the  London  Station  where  the  train 
starts  in  the  marnin'.  It'll  give  the  missis  ten  min 
utes  extry  in  bed." 

"The  missis !"  Hindwood  frowned.  "If  you  refer 
to  the  lady  who's  with  me,  she's  not  my  'missis.' ' 

The  man  became  sly.  Stretching  a  fat  finger  along 
his  nose,  he  edged  nearer  and  whispered:  "Between 
you  and  me  that's  h'alright.  Wot  wiv  drivin'  so 
many  gentry  from  the  Contingnong  me  own  morals 
are  almost  foreign." 

Hindwood  turned  from  him  coldly.  "You're  on 
the  wrong  tack.  And  now  how  does  one  get  into 
this  hotel?  Will  they  admit  us  at  such  an  hour?" 

"H'at  h'all  hours.    H'absolutely  h'at  h'all  hours." 

"If  that's  the  case,"  he  thrust  his  head  inside  the 
cab,  "you  stay  here,  Santa.  I'll  go  and  find  out." 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT      41 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  back.  "They'll  take  us. 
Go  inside  and  wait  while  I  settle  with  the  driver." 

When  he  joined  her  at  the  desk,  he  found  it  neces 
sary  to  make  the  same  explanation  that  he  had 
already  made  to  the  cabman.  The  night-porter  had 
allotted  them  one  room,  taking  it  for  granted  they 
Were  married.  He  had  to  be  informed  that  two  were 
required. 

"D'you  want  'em  on  the  same  floor  and  next  to 
each  other?" 

"On  the  roof  if  you  like,"  Hindwood  answered 
impatiently,  "only  let  us  get  to  bed.  We're,  or 
rather  I'm  catching  the  eight-thirty  train  to  London 
in  the  morning,  and  it's  nearly  daylight  now.  How 
about  you?"  He  turned  to  Santa.  "What  train 
are  you  catching?" 

"The  same  as  you." 

"Then  we  might  as  well  breakfast  together?" 

She  nodded. 

Turning  again  to  the  night-porter,  he  said,  "Put 
us  both  down  for  a  call  at  seven." 

The  man  was  leading  the  way  upstairs.  As  they 
followed,  Santa  whispered, 

"You  see,  you  were  mistaken." 

"How?" 

"You  threatened  that  we'd  be  detained  and  ques 
tioned.  You  frightened  me  terribly.  We  weren't." 

"No.     We  weren't." 

She  slipped  her  arm  through  his  companionably. 
"I  feel  so  relieved  and  happy.  I  don't  believe  there 
was  a  tragedy.  The  Prince  changed  his  mind  at  the 


42  THE  VANISHING  FOINT 

last  moment;  he's  landing  at  Boulogne  or  Rotter 
dam.  It  may  even  have  been  a  strategy  to  mislead 
some  enemy  who  was  waiting  for  him  here  in 
Plymouth." 

"Perhaps.     I  never  thought  of  that." 

Their  rooms  were  on  different  floors.  The  porter 
showed  the  way  to  hers  first.  Now  that  they  had  to 
separate,  Hindwood  would  have  given  much  for  a 
private  word  with  her.  Discreetly,  outside  her  door, 
in  the  presence  of  the  night-porter,  they  parted. 

"Then  we  meet  at  breakfast,"  he  reminded  her. 

"At  breakfast,"  she  assented.  "And  let's  hope 
that  we  don't  oversleep  ourselves." 


VIII 

It  seemed  to  him  that  his  head  had  just  touched 
the  pillow  when  he  was  awakened  by  his  door  being 
pounded.  Sitting  up  in  bed,  he  consulted  his 
watch.  Seven  exactly! 

"I'm  awake,"  he  shouted.  With  that  he  jumped 
out  of  bed  to  prevent  himself  from  drowsing. 

His  first  thought  was  of  her ;  again  he  was  going 
to  meet  her.  The  prospect  filled  him  with  excite 
ment,  but  not  with  gladness.  His  dreams  had  been 
troubled  by  her;  there  had  been  no  moment  since 
he  had  closed  his  eyes  that  he  had  been  without  her. 
The  wildness  of  that  kiss,  bestowed  in  the  dark  by  a 
woman  humbling  herself,  had  set  his  blood  on  fire.  It 
was  not  right  that  a  man  should  be  kissed  like  that, 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT      43 

and   yet  he  longed  to   reexperience   the   sensation. 

"Any  woman  could  have  done  it,"  he  argued. 
"This  isn't  love;  it's  nothing  peculiar  to  Santa. 
Any  reasonably  beautiful  woman  could  have  done 
it  by  acting  the  way  she  acted.  I  had  consoled  my 
self  that  I  was  immune  from  women.  I  was  starving, 
and  I  didn't  know  it." 

His  sane  mind  warned  him  that  it  would  be  wise 
to  avoid  further  encounters.  She  was  too  alluring 
for  him  to  withstand.  There  were  too  many  things 
about  her  that  were  unaccountable.  There  was  her 
frenzied  display  of  infatuation  for  both  himself  and 
the  Prince,  all  within  the  space  of  twelve  hours. 

He  was  brushing  his  hair  and  viewing  his  reflec 
tion  in  the  shabby  mirror,  when  he  reached  this  point. 
He  stopped  brushing  and  regarded  his  reflection 
intently.  What  could  any  woman  discover  in  those 
features  to  go  mad  over?  It  was  a  hard  face,  clean 
shaven,  bony,  and  powerful,  roughened  by  the  wind 
and  tanned  by  the  sun.  It  was  the  mask  of  an 
ascetic,  which  concealed  rather  than  revealed  the 
emotions.  And  yet  once  it  had  been  sensitive;  you 
could  trace  that  in  the  kindly  blueness  of  the  eyes 
and  the  faint  tenderness  of  the  full-lipped  mouth. 
The  hair  was  a  rusty  brown,  growing  thin  about  the 
temples ;  the  nose  was  pinched  at  the  nostrils  with 
long-endured  suffering — the  brow  furrowed.  He 
smiled  in  amused  disapproval  and  went  on  with  his 
brushing.  Not  the  face  of  an  Apollo!  Nothing  to 
rave  about ! 

And  yet,  despite  his  looks,  here  was  at  least  one 


44  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

woman  who,  for  whatever  reason,  was  desperate  to 
marry  him.  On  the  drive  through  the  dawn  from  the 
dock  to  the  hotel  she  had  left  no  doubt  of  her  inten 
tions.  It  inflamed  his  curiosity.  Though  he  was 
nearing  forty,  with  the  exception  of  that  one  disas 
trous  affair,  women  were  still  for  him  an  untried 
adventure.  But  in  the  case  of  Santa,  to  indulge  his 
curiosity  further  might  lead  to  penalties.  She  was 
liable  to  repeat  last  night's  performance;  the  jour 
ney  to  London  would  probably  provide  her  with  a 
fitting  opportunity.  If  it  did,  could  he  muster  the 
cruelty  to  refuse  her? 

On  one  point  his  mind  was  made  up:  he  would 
not  marry  her.  He  had  no  time  to  waste  on  mar 
riage.  With  her  it  would  be  folly.  Moreover,  while 
her  breaking  down  of  reticences  had  spurred  his 
eagerness,  it  had  forfeited  his  respect.  It  had  robbed 
him  of  his  prerogative  of  conquest.  It  had  changed 
him  from  the  hunter  into  the  hunted.  He  was  all 
but  trapped. 

"Trapped!" 

He  was  fastening  his  bag.  He  pressed  the  catch 
into  the  lock  and  stood  up. 

"Trapped !    Not  yet.    Not  exactly." 

Immediately  his  mind  began  to  race,  devising 
plans  for  eluding  capture.  He  didn't  need  to  keep 
his  breakfast  appointment  with  her.  He  could  miss 
the  eight-thirty  and  travel  to  London  later.  He 
could  slip  out  unnoticed  and  take  up  his  abode  in 
another  hotel.  Once  he  had  lost  her,  he  would  have 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT      45 

put  himself  beyond  temptation.  She  would  have  no 
clew  to  his  whereabouts,  nor  he  to  hers. 

As  he  passed  slowly  down  the  stairs,  he  was  still 
undecided  as  to  how  he  should  act.  On  arriving  in 
the  hall,  he  loitered  by  the  hotel  desk,  half  deter 
mined  to  call  for  his  reckoning  and  make  a  bolt  for 
it.  While  he  dallied,  the  yearning  to  see  her  for  a 
last  time  swam  uppermost.  After  all,  he  owed  some 
thing  to  the  only  woman  who  had  paid  him  the  com 
pliment  of  loving  him.  He  would  not  speak  to  her, 
would  not  let  her  know  that  he  was  there.  He  would 
peep  into  the  room  unseen  and  remember  her  always 
as  waiting  for  him. 

Bag  in  hand,  he  strode  along  the  passage  to  the 
coffee-room,  where  breakfast  was  being  served.  The 
baize  doors  were  a-swing  with  scurrying  waiters. 
Stooping,  he  peered  through  the  panes.  Pushing 
the  doors  slightly  open,  he  gazed  more  steadily.  The 
room  was  littered  with  ungroomed  people,  their  heads 
bowed,  their  elbows  flapping,  like  a  flock  of  city 
sparrows  snatching  crumbs  from  beneath  the  hoofs 
of  passing  traffic.  Nowhere  could  he  espy  her,  his 
rarer  bird  of  the  dainty  plumage. 

He  grew  ashamed  of  his  furtiveness.  Why  should 
he  be  afraid  of  her?  She  shouldn't  be  disappointed. 
She  should  find  him  gallantly  expecting  her.  Re 
signing  his  bag  to  a  solicitous  bell-boy,  he  drew  him 
self  up  to  his  lean  western  height  and  entered. 


46  THE  VANISHING  POINT 


IX 


Seated  at  a  table,  he  had  watched  the  swing-doors 
for  a  full  half-hour.  He  had  finished  his  breakfast. 
If  he  were  to  catch  the  eight-thirty,  it  was  time  for 
him  to  be  moving.  He  began  to  flirt  with  the  idea  of 
postponing  his  journey;  it  was  evident  she  had  over* 
slept  herself. 

At  the  desk,  while  he  settled  his  account,  he  had 
it  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  inquire  for  her,  but 
he  was  daunted  by  the  presence  of  the  night-porter. 
The  man  kept  eyeing  him  with  a  knowing  grin,  as 
though  he  were  expecting  just  such  a  question. 

"I  won't  gratify  him,"  Hindwood  thought.  "The 
fellow  knows  too  much.  It's  fate,  if  I  miss  her." 

He  crossed  the  road  to  the  station.  Having  se 
cured  a  seat  in  a  first-class  smoker,  he  roamed  up 
and  down  the  platform.  Every  few  minutes  he  con 
sulted  his  watch  as  the  hands  circled  nearer  to  the 
half-hour.  He  bought  papers  at  the  news-stand 
and  returned  to  buy  more  papers ;  from  there,  while 
not  seeming  to  do  so,  he  could  obtain  a  clear  view 
of  the  hotel.  And  still  there  was  no  sign  of  her. 

When  it  was  almost  too  late,  he  threw  caution  to 
the  winds.  At  a  gait  between  a  run  and  a  walk,  he 
recrossed  the  road  and  dashed  up  the  hotel  steps. 
As  he  confronted  the  clerk  behind  the  desk,  he  was  a 
little  breathless;  he  was  also  aware  that  the  night- 
porter's  grin  had  widened. 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT      47 

"There's  a  lady  staying  here.  She  was  to  have 
traveled  with  me  to  London.  I'm  afraid  she's  not 
been  wakened." 

"A  lady!"  The  clerk  looked  up  with  the  bored 
expression  of  one  who  was  impervious  to  romance. 
"A  lady!  Oh,  yes." 

"She's  a  passenger  from  the  Ryndam"  he  con 
tinued.  "Her  name's  Miss  Gorlof.  Send  some  one 
to  her  room  to  find  out  at  once " 

The  night-porter  interrupted.  Addressing  the 
clerk,  he  said:  "The  gentleman  means  the  foreign- 
looking  lady  wot  I  told  you  about — the  one  in  all 
the  furs."  Then  to  Hindwood,  "She  was  called  for 
at  six  this  mornin'.  A  gentleman  in  goggles,  who 
couldn't  speak  no  English,  arrived  in  a  tourin*  car 
and  drove  off  with  'er." 

"Drove  off  with  her.     But " 

Realizing  that  too  much  emotion  would  make  him 
appear  ridiculous,  he  steadied  his  voice  and  asked 
casually,  "I  suppose  she  left  a  note  for  me?" 

The  clerk  glanced  across  his  shoulder  at  the  rack. 
"Your  name's  Mr.  Hindwood,  isn't  it?"  He  raised 
his  hand  to  a  pigeonhole  lettered  "H".  "You  can 
see  for  yourself,  sir.  There's  nothing  in  it." 

"Then  perhaps  it  was  a  verbal  message.  She 
would  be  certain  to  leave  me  her  address." 

The  clerk  turned  to  the  night-porter.     "Did  she?" 

The  night-porter  beamed  with  satisfaction.  "She 
did  not." 

He  had  achieved  his  dramatic  effect. 


48  THE  VANISHING  POINT 


He  was  the  last  passenger  to  squeeze  through  the 
barrier.  As  he  scrambled  into  his  carriage,  the 
train  was  on  the  point  of  moving.  Spreading  one 
of  his  many  papers  on  his  knees,  he  lit  a  cigarette. 
He  believed  he  was  behaving  as  though  nothing  had 
happened.  "That  I  can  take  it  like  this  proves  that 
she  was  nothing  to  mi,"  he  assured  himself. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  discovered  that  he  had  not 
read  a  line  and  that  the  cigarette  had  gone  out. 

"I  suppose  I'm  a  bit  upset,"  he  admitted,  "though 
goodness  knows  why  I  should  be.  The  matter's 
ended  exactly  as  I  wanted." 

But  had  it?  What  had  he  wanted?  Does  a  man 
ever  know  what  he  wants  where  a  woman  is  con 
cerned?  He  desires  most  the  thing  which  he  most 
dreads.  During  the  voyage  he  had  wanted  to  win 
her  from  Prince  Rogovich.  On  the  tug  he  had 
wanted  to  forget  her.  In  the  cab  he  had  wanted  to 
go  on  kissing  her  forever.  That  morning  he  had 
wanted  to  save  his  freedom.  On  the  station,  like  a 
maddened  schoolboy,  his  terror  had  been  lest  he 
might  lose  her. 

As  a  result  he  had  lost  her.  Somewhere  through 
the  sunny  lanes  of  Devon  she  was  speeding  with  the 
gentleman  who  "couldn't  speak  no  English"  and 
wore  goggles.  In  which  direction  and  for  what  pur 
pose  he  could  not  guess. 

He   smiled  bitterly.     It  was   a   situation  which 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT      49 

called  for  mirth.  He  had  accused  her  of  having 
trapped  him  at  a  time  when  she  herself  had  been 
escaping  from  him.  He  had  complained  that  her 
affection  was  too  ardently  obvious  at  a  moment 
when  she  was  proving  herself  most  coldly  elusive. 
While  he  had  been  resenting  the  way  in  which  he  was 
being  hunted,  she  had  already  abandoned  him  to  hunt 
to  his  heart's  content. 

His  reflections  were  broken  in  upon  by  a  weak- 
eyed  old  clergyman  seated  opposite  to  him  in  the 
far  corner. 

"Excuse  me,  but  I  see  by  your  labels  that  you've 
just  landed.  May  I  ask  whether  your  vessel  was 
the  Ryndam?" 

"It  was." 

"Then  there's  an  item  in  the  local  paper  which 
should  interest  you.  It  has  to  do  with  Prince 
Rogovich,  the  great  Polish  patriot.  He  was  your 
fellow  passenger,  if  I'm  not  mistaken." 

Hindwood  was  disinclined  for  conversation.  He 
made  his  tone  brusk  that  he  might  discourage  fur 
ther  questions.  "You're  not  mistaken,  and  I  guess 
I  know  what  you're  going  to  tell  me:  that  after  all 
the  preparations  made  for  his  reception,  the  Prince 
didn't  land  at  Plymouth  but,  without  notifying  any 
one,  traveled  on  either  to  Boulogne  or  Rotterdam." 

"But  that  wasn't  what  I  was  going  to  tell  you," 
the  old  gentleman  continued  in  his  benevolent  pulpit 
manner.  "Oh,  no,  I  was  going  to  tell  you  something 
quite  different.  After  the  Ryndam  left  Plymouth, 


50  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

the  Captain  had  her  searched  from  stem  to  stern. 
Not  a  trace  of  the  Prince  could  be  found." 

"Extraordinary !  I  suppose  the  news  was  received 
by  wireless.  Does  the  paper  suggest  an  explana 
tion?" 

"None  whatsoever.  I  thought  you'd  be  interested. 
Perhaps  you'd  like  to  read  for  yourself." 

The  paper  contained  the  bare  fact  as  the 
clergyman  had  stated  it.  "A  complete  search  was 
made.  All  his  personal  belongings  were  found  in 
tact,  but  of  the  Prince  himself  not  a  trace." 

Hindwood  closed  his  eyes  and  pretended  to  sleep 
that  he  might  protect  himself  from  further  intru 
sions.  He  wanted  to  argue  his  way  through  this 
problem  and  to  acquit  Santa  of  any  share  in  what 
had  happened.  And  yet,  if  an  investigation  were 
held  and  he  himself  had  to  tell  all  he  knew,  things 
would  look  black  for  her.  Was  that  why ? 

He  tried  to  crush  the  ugly  thought,  but  it 
clamored  to  be  expressed.  Was  that  why  she  had 
made  love  to  him — that  her  kiss  might  seal  his  lips 
with  silence? 

The  train  was  slowing  down.  He  opened  his  eyes. 
In  the  cheerfulness  of  sunshine  life  took  on  a  more 
normal  aspect.  Towering  above  crowded  roofs  of 
houses,  a  tall  cathedral  pricked  the  blueness  of  the 
sky. 

"Where  are  we?" 

The  clergyman  was  collecting  his  bundles.  "Exe 
ter — where  I  alight." 

As  soon  as  he  had  the  carriage  to  himself,  before 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT      51 

any  one  could  enter,  he  reached  up  to  the  rack  and 
quickly  removed  the  Ryndam  labels  from  his  bag. 
Having  done  that,  he  stepped  to  the  platform  and 
went  in  search  of  papers.  The  torn  labels  were  still 
in  his  hand.  Surreptitiously  he  dropped  them  be 
tween  the  train  and  the  platform,  some  distance 
lower  down  than  his  own  carriage.  He  realized  the 
stealth  he  had  employed  only  when  Exeter  was  left 
behind. 

"Ridiculous !"  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It's 
getting  on  my  nerves." 

In  his  most  recently  acquired  batch  of  papers  he 
found  no  reference  to  the  topic  which  absorbed  him. 
At  the  time  when  the  London  press  had  been  pub 
lished,  the  disappearance  of  the  Prince  had  not  been 
known  to  the  world. 

Throughout  the  journey,  at  every  fresh  stopping- 
place,  he  repeated  the  performance,  dashing  down 
platforms  in  quest  of  newsboys  and  purchasing 
copies  of  every  journal  on  sale.  He  caught  himself 
continually  eyeing  his  bag  to  make  sure  that  he  really 
had  removed  all  labels.  He  began  to  feel  as  if  he 
himself  were  the  criminal.  In  his  intentions  he  was 
already  an  accessory  after  the  fact.  Whether 
Santa  was  innocent  or  guilty,  at  all  costs  he  had 
determined  to  shield  her. 

Through  the  late  summer  afternoon,  as  he  drew 
nearer  to  London,  his  suspense  began  to  die.  He 
was  getting  the  later  editions  now ;  none  of  them  so 
much  as  mentioned  the  affair.  In  Plymouth  and 


52  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

Bristol  it  had  probably  been  of  local  importance. 
He  took  courage  to  smile.  What  a  coward  dread 
can  make  of  an  honest  man ! 

Afternoon  was  fading  into  the  gold  of  evening 
when  they  steamed  into  Paddington.  By  making 
haste  he  could  just  reach  the  American  Embassy 
before  closing  time.  It  was  likely  that  several  com 
munications  had  been  addressed  to  him  there.  He 
had  cabled  ahead  to  the  Ritz  for  a  reservation.  It 
wouldn't  take  him  far  out  of  his  direction  to  call  at 
the  Embassy  on  the  way  to  his  hotel. 

In  the  stir  and  bustle  of  familiar  London,  the 
nightmare  of  the  voyage  grew  vague.  He  stepped 
from  the  carriage  like  a  man  awaking.  It  thrilled 
him  with  happy  surprise  to  discover  the  old  gray 
city,  plumed  with  smoke  and  smiling,  waiting  un 
changed  beneath  his  feet  to  welcome  him.  The  very 
smell  of  mingled  gasoline  and  horses  from  the  cab- 
ranks  was  reassuring.  Every  sight  that  his  eyes 
encountered  made  him  feel  respectable. 

44 Any  luggage,  sir?"  It  was  a  porter  accosting 
him. 

"Yes.  Two  trunks.  At  least,  I  guess  they're  on 
this  train." 

"Which  van,  sir?" 

"The  one  from  Plymouth."  Then,  with  conscious 
bravado,  he  added :  "I'm  from  the  Ryndam.  You'll 
recognize  them  by  the  Holland-American  tags." 

The  porter  had  gone  to  secure  a  barrow.  While 
Hindwood  waited,  gazing  about  him  idly,  his  eyes 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT       53 

were  startled  by  a  news-placard  bearing  the  follow 
ing  legend: 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PRINCE 
FOUL  PLAY  SUSPECTED 


He  swayed,  as  though  he  had  been  struck  by  a 
bullet.  He  glanced  round  feverishly,  fearing  lest 
he  might  espy  another  placard  stating,  "Santa 
Gorlof  Arrested."  But  no — for  the  moment  she  was 
safe.  He  thanked  God  for  the  touring-car  and  the 
forethought  of  the  foreign  gentleman  who  could 
speak  no  English. 

Quickly  he  began  to  readjust  his  plans.  If  he 
went  to  claim  his  trunks,  there  was  no  telling  by 
whom  he  might  be  met — newspaper  men,  detectives, 
officials  from  the  Foreign  Office.  Moreover,  Santa's 
trunks  were  in  the  van.  When  he  had  explained 
himself,  he  might  be  called  upon  to  account  for  her 
absence.  There  was  only  one  thing  for  him  to  do: 
for  her  sake  he  must  get  out  of  England.  If  he 
delayed,  he  might  be  prevented.  It  would  be  unwise 
for  him  to  go  to  the  Ritz ;  he  must  spend  the  night 
at  some  obscure  hotel.  The  only  place  to  which 
he  might  be  traced  was  the  Embassy ;  but  he  would 
have  to  risk  that — it  was  of  the  utmost  importance 
that  he  should  pick  up  his  communications. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  making  good  his  escape, 
when  the  porter  trundled  up  with  his  barrow. 


54  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

"Hi,  mister !  Where  are  you  goin'?  I'll  be  needin* 
you  to  identify  'em." 

"I  know  you  will."  Hindwood  turned  on  him  a 
face  which  was  flustered.  "But  I've  just  remembered 
I  have  an  engagement.  I'll  send  for  them  later. 
It'll  make  no  difference  to  you ;  here's  what  I  should 
have  paid  you." 

The  man,  having  inspected  it  carefully,  pocketed 
the  half-crown.  "It  won't  take  long,"  he  suggested ; 
"me  and  the  barrow's  ready.  And  it  won't  cost  you 
nothink,  seein'  as  how  you've  paid  me." 

"No  time." 

Without  more  ado,  he  made  a  dash  for  the  nearest 
taxi.  "As  fast  as  you  like,"  he  told  the  driver; 
"the  faster,  the  bigger  your  fare." 

He  fled  out  of  the  station  at  a  forbidden  rate, 
but  after  half  a  mile  the  taxi  halted  against  the  curb. 
Lowering  the  window,  he  looked  out. 

"What's  the  matter?  Something  wrong  with 
your  engine?" 

"We  ain't  been  follered.  You  can  calm  down," 
the  driver  assured  him  soothingly.  "Wot's  wrong  is 
that  you  ain't  told  me  no  address." 

"Stupid  of  me!    The  American  Embassy." 

At  the  Embassy,  having  explained  his  errand,  he 
was  requested  to  wait.  Then,  rather  to  his  surprise, 
instead  of  having  his  letters  handed  to  him,  he  was 
shown  into  a  handsome  room  where,  at  the  far  end, 
a  gray-haired  man  was  seated,  sorting  papers  be 
hind  a  large  mahogany  table. 

Hindwood  crossed  the  room  and  held  out  his  hand. 


DISAPPEARANCE  OF  A  PATRIOT       55 

"I'm  Philip  Hindwood,  the  railroad  expert.  I  guess 
you've  heard  of  me.  I  called  in  case  there  was  some 
mail  for  me.  I  had  no  intention  of  troubling  you 
personally." 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,"  said  the  gray-haired 
man  gravely.  "If  you  hadn't  troubled  me,  I  should 
have  had  to  trouble  you.  There  have  been  inquiries 
for  you.  They  have  to  do  with  a  woman  who  goes 
by  the  name  of  Santa  Gorlof.  The  police  thought 
you  might  know  something  about  her.  It  seems  she's 
wanted." 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND 

THE    RETURN    OF*  SANTA    GORLOF 


OO  Santa  was  "wanted!'*  Why  she  was  wanted 
^  Hindwood  did  not  dare  to  question.  And  the 
police  thought  he  could  tell  them  something!  He 
could,  but  it  would  be  something  to  put  them  off  her 
track.  After  kissing  a  woman,  it  wasn't  likely  he'd 
betray  her.  She  might  have  committed  every  crime 
on  the  calendar;  it  would  make  no  difference.  He 
had  learned  his  code  of  honor  on  the  outskirts  of 
civilization,  where  law  is  more  often  defied  than 
obeyed.  By  his  standards  of  chivalry,  after  what 
had  passed  between  them,  he  had  no  option  but  to 
play  the  game  by  her.  What  did  they  think  he 
knew?  Why  should  they  think  he  knew  anything? 
He  masked  his  anxiety  with  seeming  unconcern. 
Without  his  assistance,  they  could  make  little  head 
way.  He  must  let  fall  no  hint  that  would  suggest 
a  sentimental  interest  in  her  fortunes.  He  would 
be  spied  on — probably  he  had  been  spied  on  already. 
For  all  he  knew,  the  clergyman  in  the  train,  the  por 
ter  at  Paddington,  the  taxi-driver  who  had  assured 
him  that  he  wasn't  followed,  were  detectives.  Hence 
forward  he  must  live  his  life  normally  and  in  public, 

56 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       57 

doing  everything  to  disarm  suspicion.  Any  diver 
gence  from  his  usual  habits,  such  as  staying  in  ob 
scure  quarters  or  canceling  engagements  that  he 
might  escape  to  the  Continent,  would  create  the 
impression  that  he  was  possessed  of  guilty  knowl 
edge.  If  he  had  to  speak  of  her,  he  must  refer  to 
her  as  a  charming  acquaintance  and  profess  horror 
that  such  a  charge  should  have  been  brought  against 
her. 

Following  this  line,  he  left  the  Embassy  with  the 
promise  that  he  would  consult  with  the  police  at  their 
earliest  convenience.  From  there  he  drove  to  the 
Ritz,  adhering  to  arrangements  made  before  this 
sinister  thing  had  happened.  To  avoid  being  way 
laid,  he  went  straight  to  his  rooms,  having  ordered 
his  trunks  to  be  fetched  from  the  station  and  his 
dinner  to  be  served  in  his  apartment. 

The  suite  allotted  him  was  one  which  he  had  occu 
pied  on  several  previous  occasions.  It  soothed  his 
ruffled  pride  to  discover  that  his  preferences  had 
been  remembered.  From  the  front  windows  he  could 
gaze  down  Piccadilly ;  from  the  side  he  could  watch 
the  green  park,  a  lake  of  jade,  imprisoned  between 
walls  of  granite.  In  the  panes  facing  westward  a 
fairy  city  hung  poised,  tipped  with  flame  and  ensan 
guined  by  the  sunset. 

Leisurely  he  set  to  work  to  bathe  and  shave, 
stretching  out  the  ritual  and  reveling  in  the  re 
covery  of  his  self-respect.  Slowly  the  sunset  faded. 
Before  he  had  made  an  end,  the  golden  September 
dusk  was  drifting  down.  In  the  twilight  he  stretched 


58  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

himself  on  the  bed,  waiting  for  his  trunks  with  his 
wardrobe  to  arrive.  He  felt  that  he  could  face 
the  police  with  much  more  calmness  if  he  was  clad 
in  the  respectability  of  evening  dress. 

He  must  have  dozed,  for  the  room  was  completely 
dark  when  he  was  brought  to  his  feet  by  the  sharp 
ringing  of  the  telephone.  As  he  fumbled  for  the 
receiver,  he  thought,  "Well,  I've  a  good  reason  for 
not  seeing  them.  Pajamas  aren't  dignified." 

Aloud  he  said:  "Yes.  Quite  correct — Mr.  Hind- 
wood.  Yes,  the  Mr.  Hindwood  who's  just  landed 
from  the  Ryndam.  You  traced  me  by  my  trunks ! 
You  were  expecting  I'd  claim  them  in  person !  The 
man  from  the  Ritz  is  there!  That's  all  right. 
Thank  you  for  telling  me.  What  was  my  reason? — 
Certainly  not.  I  was  avoiding  no  one.  What  did 
you  say  you  were? — A  newspaper-man! — I  guess 
not.  I've  nothing  to  tell — no.  That's  final.'* 

He  had  scarcely  hung  up  when  the  bell  commenced 
ringing  again.  The  next  half-hour  was  spent  in 
refusing  to  be  interviewed  by  invisible  persons.  It 
seemed  as  though  every  journalist  in  London  were 
waiting  in  queue  to  get  on  to  him.  Some  were  suave, 
some  bullying;  all  were  persistent.  Didn't  he  know 
that  he  owed  it  to  the  public  to  say  something?  If 
a  list  of  questions  was  submitted  to  him,  would  he 
make  a  written  statement? 

To  cut  the  clamor  short,  he  instructed  the  hotel 
operator  to  allow  no  one  to  opeak  with  him  who 
would  not  state  his  business.  For  the  rest  of  the 
evening  he  was  "out"  to  any  one  who  had  to  do  with 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       59 

the  press.     After  that  the   telephone   grew   quiet. 

He  switched  on  the  lights.  As  he  did  so,  he  no 
ticed  that  he  was  trembling  with  excitement.  He 
was  furious.  This  assault  had  made  him  aware  of 
the  unseen  wall  of  hostility  by  which  he  and  Santa 
were  surrounded.  She  hadn't  a  chance;  the  whole 
of  organized  society  was  against  her.  The  odds  were 
brutally  unfair.  Nothing  that  she  had  done  could 
warrant  such  unsportsmanly  cruelty.  So  far  it  had 
not  been  proved  that  she  had  done  anything,  yet 
every  one  was  willing  to  prejudge  her.  The  pursuit 
was  cowardly.  Whether  he  loved  her  did  not  mat 
ter.  It  was  a  problem  in  knight-errantry :  to  protect 
her  he  was  willing  to  risk  all  that  he  was  and  had. 

The  arrival  of  his  trunks  gave  him  something  else 
to  think  about.  When  he  was  dressed,  he  felt  ready 
for  every  emergency.  After  all,  he  was  not  the 
criminal. 

He  had  his  dinner  spread  against  a  window  from 
which  he  could  watch  the  arc-lights  of  Piccadilly 
strung  across  the  night  like  a  rope  of  pearls.  He 
tried  to  be  persuaded  that  he  was  enjoying  himself. 
If  the  police  didn't  call  on  him  within  the  hour,  he 
would  saunter  out  to  a  music-hall  and  rub  shoulders 
with  the  crowd. 

But  would  he?  To  what  purpose?  He  would 
have  to  go  alone,  as  he  always  went.  It  would  be 
different  if  she  were  with  him.  The  last  nine  days 
had  spoiled  him  for  loneliness ;  they  had  taught  him 
the  romance  of  a  woman's  friendship.  And  yet,  not 
friendship — she  had  asked  for  his  affection.  All  his 


60  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

life  he  had  craved  to  give  his  love  to  some  woman. 
Until  he  had  met  Santa,  his  craving  had  been  denied. 
No  woman  had  seemed  to  care.  Because  of  that,  in 
spite  of  success,  he  had  reckoned  himself  a  failure. 
He  had  attained  everything — power,  position,  wealth 
— everything  except  his  desire.  There  had  been 
moments  on  the  voyage  when  it  had  seemed  to  him 
that  his  goal  was  in  sight. 

If  she  were  to  tap  on  his  door,  how  would  he  greet 
her?  If  she  did,  it  would  be  like  her;  she  could 
always  be  counted  on  to  do  the  unexpected.  He  told 
himself  that  he  would  ask  her  no  questions.  He 
would  not  upbraid  her.  He  would  comfort  her  in 
the  way  that  she  understood  best.  When  the  police 
came  to  interrogate  him,  he  would  place  his  arm 
about  her  and  answer: 

"Gentlemen,  if  it  is  Santa  Gorlof  you  are  seek 
ing,  she  is  here.  I  have  asked  her  to  be  my  wife." 

The  scene  as  he  conjured  it  was  worthy  of  Dumas ; 
he  was  thrilled  by  the  gallantry  of  his  imagination. 
His  ponderings  were  cut  short  by  a  sharp  rap.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet;  it  almost  seemed  that  his  dream 
was  to  be  realized.  The  rap  was  repeated.  Outside 
the  door  a  page  was  standing. 

"There's  a  gentleman  downstairs.  He  won't  give 
his  name.  He  says  you  left  word,  sir,  at  the  Ameri 
can  Embassy,  that  you  would  be  willing  to  see  him." 

"Show  him  up." 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       61 


II 


Leaving  the  door  ajar,  he  drew  a  chair  to  his  desk 
and  commenced  rummaging  through  a  pile  of  docu 
ments.  He  planned  to  create  the  impression  that  he 
regarded  this  visit  as  of  small  importance.  He  was 
anxious,  even  at  the  risk  of  appearing  vulgar,  to  be 
discovered  in  the  role  of  an  American  money-lord, 
every  second  of  whose  time  represented  dollars — the 
kind  of  man  who  was  too  influential  to  be  bulldozed 
by  the  police  methods  of  a  country  whose  citizenship 
he  did  not  share.  He  urged  himself  into  a  mood  of 
contempt  by  recalling  the  beefy  caricatures  which 
pass  currency  in  English  fiction  for  veracious  por 
traits  of  Scotland  Yard  detectives.  This  fellow 
would  look  like  a  constable  off  duty.  When  he  sat 
down,  he  would  bulge  at  the  neck  and  mop  his  fore 
head  with  a  multicolored  handkerchief.  He  would 
be  awed  by  elegance  into  sulky  stupidity — but  would 
become  pompously  affable  when  offered  a  cigar. 

"May  I  enter?"    The  door  creaked. 

"Surely.  Come  in.  But  you  must  excuse  me  for 
a  moment."  Hindwood  spoke  without  turning.  He 
pretended  to  be  sorting  the  last  of  his  documents. 
The  cultured  tone  of  the  voice  had  surprised  him. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  his  guest  might  not  be  a  detec 
tive. 

"Sorry  to  keep  you.  Time's  valuable.  My  stay 
in  England  is  short.  There,  that's  finished.  What 


62  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

can  I  do  for  you?"  He  pushed  back  his  chair  and 
rose  to  face  his  guest. 

If  the  man's  intonation  had  surprised  him,  his 
appearance  amazed  him  still  more.  He  could  have 
passed  for  the  colonel  of  a  crack  cavalry  regiment. 
His  bearing  was  erect  and  dapper.  His  dark  lounge 
suit,  with  the  light  stripes  running  through  it,  was 
so  smartly  tailored  that  one  was  apt  to  suspect 
that  he  was  corseted.  His  hair  was  white,  his  cheeks 
tanned,  his  manner  cheerful  and  commanding.  He 
was  of  less  than  medium  height.  With  his  bristling 
mustache  and  pointed  imperial  he  bore  a  distinct 
resemblance  to  Lord  Roberts  of  Kandahar. 

Hindwood  held  out  his  hand  with  undisguised 
relief.  "Won't  you  sit  down,  sir?  I'm  afraid  I 
must  have  seemed  discourteous.  The  truth  is,  I  was 
expecting  some  one  quite  different.  The  boy  didn't 
announce  your  name  or  business." 

The  stranger  accepted  his  hand  with  an  ironic 
smile.  He  did  not  sit  down.  Instead  he  asked  a 
question.  "Wouldn't  it  be  wise  to  shut  the  door?" 

Without  waiting  for  permission,  he  went  to  the 
door  and  closed  it.  Before  he  closed  it,  he  glanced 
out  into  the  passage.  Having  regained  the  middle 
of  the  room,  he  gazed  searchingly  about  him. 

"No  one  here  who  can  listen?" 

Again  taking  matters  into  his  own  hands,  he  made 
a  swift  and  thorough  investigation,  peering  into  the 
bathroom,  stabbing  draperies  with  his  cane  as  with 
a  sword,  feeling  behind  clothes  in  cupboards.  He 
left  no  corner  uninspected  in  which  an  eavesdropper 


might  be  secreted.  Last  of  all  he  approached  the 
window  near  which  Hindwood  had  dined.  For  a  few 
seconds  he  stood  there,  staring  down  into  the  well 
of  blackness  and  the  mysterious  fairyland  of  shift 
ing  lights.  Laying  aside  his  hat  and  gloves,  but  still 
retaining  his  cane,  he  remarked : 

"Beautiful!  Very  beautiful!  Exquisite  with  the 
witchery  of  a  woman's  face,  which  masks  a  hidden 
wickedness !" 

Hindwood  had  been  regarding  him  in  silence.  "I 
have  yet  to  learn  your  name  and  business,"  he  re 
minded  him. 

The  stranger  chuckled.  "My  name!  I  have  al 
most  forgotten  it.  I  assume  so  many.  As  for  my 
business,  I'm  a  secret  service  agent  in  the  employ 
of  the  British  Government." 

"Have  you  credentials?" 

"A  letter." 

He  produced  from  his  breast  pocket  an  envelope, 
containing  this  message,  typed  on  American  Em 
bassy  notepaper,  "This  will  serve  to  introduce  the 
gentleman  who  is  anxious  to  consult  you  on  the  sub 
ject  of  which  we  spoke  this  afternoon." 

"Satisfactory?" 

"Quite.  Perhaps  now  you'll  be  seated.  If  you 
smoke,  I  can  recommend  these  cigars." 

Again  the  stranger,  with  unruffled  urbanity,  be 
trayed  his  alert  independence.  "If  you  have  no 
objection,  I  prefer  my  own." 

"As  you  like."  Hindwood  was  determined  to  con 
duct  the  interview  along  the  lines  of  social  polite- 


64  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

ness.  Selecting  a  cigar  himself,  he  notched  the  end. 
"I'm  entirely  at  your  disposal.  There's  little  I  can 
tell.  I  suppose  the  subject  on  which  you're  anxious 
to  consult  me  is  what  happened  on  the  Ryndam?" 
"Yes  and  no."  The  stranger  puffed  leisurely  for 
a  few  moments.  "The  answer  is  yes,  if  by  'what  hap 
pened  on  the  Ryndam,'  you  mean  Santa  Gorlof.." 


HI 


"Santa  Gorlof?"  Hindwood  feigned  surprise. 
"A  very  charming  lady!" 

The  shrewd  face  puckered  in  a  smile.  The  gray 
eyes  grew  piercing  beneath  the  beetling,  white  brows. 
"So  I've  been  given  to  understand.  She  has  a  way 
with  the  men,  has  our  Santa.  Even  Prince  Rogo- 
vich,  old  hand  that  he  was,  fell  for  her.  I  believe 
that's  your  expressive  phrase  in  America.  He  fell 
for  her  in  every  sense,  especially  when  she  pushed 
him  overboard." 

Hindwood  frowned.  He  realized  that  a  cat-and- 
mouse  game  had  commenced,  in  which  he  had  been 
allotted  the  role  of  mouse.  He  resented  the  levity 
with  which  Santa's  name  had  been  mentioned.  If 
the  man  was  in  earnest,  the  matter  was  too  terrible 
for  jest.  Though  he  had  harbored  the  same  sus 
picion,  to  hear  it  stated  as  a  fact  appalled  him.  The 
charge  sounded  dastardly,  spoken  in  that  pleasant 
voice  by  this  courtly  English  gentleman  who  was  old 
enough  to  be  her  father. 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF      65 

With  an  effort  he  kept  command  of  his  compo 
sure.  "Of  course  you're  joking?" 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"Then,  in  plain  American,  you're  accusing  a 
beautiful  and  fascinating  woman  of  murder." 

"Of  what  else?" 

Hindwood  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Pardon  my 
density.  I  didn't  catch  on.  It  was  your  appearance 
misled  me;  you  look  so  much  a  gentleman." 

"I  flatter  myself  that  there  are  occasions  when  I 
am." 

"Then  I  guess  we'll  have  to  reckon  this  occasion 
an  exception.  I  might  remind  you  that  it's  a  woman 
you're  accusing  and  that  the  penalty  for  murder  is 
death.  Scarcely  a  subject  to  make  merry  over  with 
a  play  upon  words !" 

"And  you're  reminding  me,"  the  stranger  added 
gently,  "that,  if  she's  a  woman,  you  and  I  are  men. 
You're  trying  to  tell  me  that,  if  my  supposition  is 
correct,  then  all  that  ravishing  caprice  that  we 
know  as  Santa  Gorlof  will  have  to  be  ruthlessly 
blotted  out.  Possibly  you're  picturing,  as  so  many 
of  her  victims  have  pictured  before  you,  the  wealth 
of  happiness  that  might  be  yours  if  you  could  win 
her  for  yourself." 

Hindwood's  hand  trembled  as  he  flicked  his  ash. 
"My  dear  sir,"  he  drawled,  "I'm  not  twenty.  I'm 
a  hard-bitten  man  of  the  world.  You  credit  me  with 
too  much  romance.  In  your  profession  you're 
trained  to  spin  theories.  Please  leave  me  out ;  stick 
to  your  assertion.  You  come  to  me,  accusing  a 


66  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

woman  of  my  acquaintance — I  can  hardly  call  her  a 
friend — of  having  committed  murder.  The  charge 
sounds  preposterous.  Why  you  should  come  to  me 
at  all  I  can  not  guess.  Before  we  go  further,  I  have 
a  right  to  ask  a  question:  is  this  mere  conjecture  or 
can  you  prove  it?" 

"I  can  prove  it."  The  stranger  paused,  studying 
the  despair  his  words  had  caused.  "I  can  prove  it." 
Then  he  added,  "If  you'll  help." 

"If  I'll  perjure  myself."  Scowling,  Hindwood 
leaped  to  his  feet.  "That  was  what  you  meant.  At 
your  time  of  life  I  should  have  thought  you  could 
have  found  a  less  infamous  way  of  gaining  your 
livelihood.  There's  your  hat,  and  there's  the  door." 

The  mocking  old  gentleman  went  through  the 
dumb  show  of  clapping  his  applause.  He  settled 
himself  more  deeply  in  his  chair.  When  he  spoke, 
it  was  with  the  lazy  good-humor  of  a  man  at  his 
club.  "You  fill  me  with  admiration.  Your  last  atti 
tude  was  superb.  I  have  only  one  criticism  to  offer 
of  your  play-acting;  by  letting  your  cigar  go  out, 
you  betrayed  the  perturbation  you  were  trying  to 
disguise.  It's  been  dead  three  minutes."  He  raised 
his  hand,  delaying  interruption.  "Don't  be  angry. 
I'm  not  doubting  your  momentary  sincerity.  But 
think  back  and  then  own  that  you  also  have  sus 
pected  that  she's  guilty." 

"Never." 

"Humph!  Your  memory  must  be  faulty.  Allow 
me  to  prompt  you  with  a  few  facts." 

Then  and  there,  without  hesitation  or  boasting, 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       67 

he  detailed  to  Hindwood  all  his  actions,  from  his  de 
parture  from  the  Ryndam  to  the  moment  when  he 
had  arrived  at  the  Embassy.  Hindwood  listened  to 
the  narration  dumfounded. 

"So  you  see,"  he  concluded,  "if  I  can  tell  you  so 
much  as  this,  there  is  probably  much  more  that  I 
could  tell.  You've  been  infatuated  by  a  she-wolf. 
What  she  did  to  Prince  Rogovich,  she  has  done  to  at 
least  a  dozen  of  her  admirers.  She  would  have  done 
the  same  to  you.  Because  there  have  been  moments 
when  you  thought  you  loved  her,  you're  unwilling 
to  hand  her  over  to  justice.  You're  even  willing  to 
risk  your  own  good  name  in  her  defense.  It's  sports- 
manly  of  you,  but  she's  undeserving  of  your  loyalty. 
When  you  know  the  truth,  you'll  thank  your  lucky 
stars  that  I  came  to-night." 


IV 


Hindwood's  face  had  gone  ashen — not  through 
fear  for  his  own  safety,  but  for  hers.  He  was  deter 
mined  not  to  believe  a  word  of  what  he  had  heard, 
and  yet  he  was  curious  to  learn.  There  was  such  an 
air  of  complete  conviction  about  the  stranger;  it 
was  impossible  to  doubt  the  integrity  of  his  inten 
tions.  What  he  hoped  was  to  discover  some  flaw 
in  his  logic.  Sinking  back  into  his  chair,  he  stared 
in  silence  at  the  man  who  believed  he  knew  every 
thing. 

Remembering  that  his  cigar  had  gone  out,  he  com- 


68  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

menced  searching  through  his  pockets  for  a  match. 

"They're  at  your  elbow,"  the  stranger  informed 
him.  "No,  not  there.  On  the  table.  I've  upset  you 
more  than  I  intended." 

Again  they  lapsed  into  silence. 

At  last  Hindwood  said:  "I  owe  you  an  apology. 
I've  been  insulting,  but  the  blame  is  partly  yours. 
You  didn't  explain  yourself;  you  withheld  your 
identity.  I  was  expecting  a  kind  of  policeman. 
But  I  think  you  understand.  Anyhow,  I  regret  my 
rudeness.  Now  tell  me,  who  are  you?" 

"I'm  Major  Cleasby,  formerly  of  the  Indian 
Army.  My  main  hobby  is  studying  the  Asiatic." 

Hindwood  looked  up  sharply.  He  remembered 
the  impression  Santa  had  made  on  him,  that  if  her 
eyes  had  been  darker,  she  could  have  passed  for  a 
Hindoo  princess. 

"I  don't  see  what  studying  the  Asiatic  has  to  do 
with  the  disappearance  of  Prince  Rogovich,"  he  said. 
"If  we're  going  to  arrive  anywhere,  what  we  need 
is  frankness.  I  think  you  ought  to  understand  my 
side  of  the  affair." 

The  Major  nodded. 

"Then,  to  start  with,  I'm  unmarried — not  that  I'm 
a  woman-hater,  but  my  life  has  been  too  packed 
with  important  undertakings  to  leave  me  much  time 
to  spare  on  women.  I've  been  a  kind  of  express, 
stopping  only  at  cities  and  rushing  by  all  the  vil 
lages.  On  the  Ryndam  I  was  forced  to  come  to  rest; 
it  so  happened  that  Santa  Gorlof  was  the  village 
at  which  I  halted.  The  Ryndam,  as  you  know,  isn't 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLO*1       69 

one  of  these  floating  palaces ;  she  doesn't  attract  the 
flashy  type  of  traveler.  The  company  on  this  last 
voyage  was  dull — dull  to  the  point  of  tears.  The 
Prince  and  Santa  Gorlof  were  the  two  exceptions. 
I  got  to  know  her  first  and  the  Prince  later.  It  was 
I  who  introduced  her  to  him.  We  were  each  of  us 
a  bit  stand-offish  at  first ;  we  drifted  together  against 
our  wills,  in  an  attempt  to  escape  from  boredom. 
Then  we  began  to  expect  each  other,  till  finally — 
We  were  two  men  and  a  woman,  with  nothing  to  dis 
tract  us ;  it's  an  old  story — the  usual  thing  hap 
pened.  I  suppose  you'd  call  it  a  three-cornered  flir 
tation  in  which  the  Prince  and  I  were  rivals. 

"At  first  Santa  was  strictly  impartial ;  toward  the 
end  it  was  the  Prince  she  favored.  Fm  afraid  I  got 
huffy,  which  was  distinctly  childish,  for  none  of  us 
was  serious.  We  were  two  men  and  a  beautiful 
woman  at  loose  ends,  rather  dangerously  amusing 
ourselves.  At  Plymouth,  if  things  had  terminated 
normally,  we  should  have  come  to  our  senses  and 
gone  our  separate  ways.  At  most  we  should  have 
said  good-by  on  reaching  London.  In  none  of  our 
dealings  had  there  been  the  least  hint  of  anything 
serious — nothing  that  would  suggest  a  love-affair. 
Speaking  for  myself,  my  interest  in  Santa  had  been 
on  the  wane  for  several  days  before  we  landed.  I 
should  have  parted  with  her  on  the  dock  without 
compunction,  if  this  extraordinary  disappearance 
hadn't  occurred.  It  was  that  that  again  drew  us 
together.  Neither  of  us  was  willing  to  believe  the 
worst ;  we  both  tried  to  persuade  ourselves  that  he'd 


70  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

changed  his  plans  at  the  last  moment.  At  the  same 
time  we  were  both  a  little  anxious  lest  we  might  be 
bothered  with  questions  and  detained.  Probably  it 
was  to  avoid  any  such  annoyance  that  she  dodged 
her  breakfast  engagement  with  me  and  escaped  so 
early  this  morning." 

The  Major  thrust  himself  forward,  resting  his 
chin  on  the  handle  of  his  cane.  "That  wasn't  her 
reason." 

"You're  presuming  her  guilt.     Why  wasn't  it?" 

"You  forget  the  foreigner  who  wore  goggles  and 
pretended  he  couldn't  speak  English.  She  couldn't 
possibly  have  sent  him  word.  The  necessity  for  her 
escape  must  have  been  foreseen  and  the  means  pre 
arranged." 

Hindwood  puzzled  to  find  some  more  innocent 
explanation.  "He  might  have  been  her  husband." 

"He  wasn't." 

"You  speak  as  though  you  knew  everything." 
Then,  with  a  catch  in  his  breath,  "She  isn't  ar 
rested?" 

"If  she  were,  I  shouldn't  tell  you." 

"Then  what  makes  you  so  positive  that  he  wasn't 
her  husband?" 

The  Major  drew  himself  erect,  smiling  palely. 
"Because  /  am  her  husband." 


Hindwood  rose  and  moved  over  to  the  window. 
He  felt   mentally   stifled.      He   leaned   out,   gazing 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF      71 

down  into  the  pool  of  blackness,  along  whose  floor, 
like  the  phosphorescence  of  fishes,  lights  drifted  and 
darted.  The  sight  of  so  much  coolness  quieted  him. 
When  he  turned,  the  Major  had  not  moved  a  muscle; 
he  was  sitting  as  he  had  left  him,  erect  and  palely 
smiling. 

"You'll  not  be  surprised  when  I  tell  you,  Major 
Cleasby,  that  your  last  piece  of  information  com 
pletely  overwhelms  me.  You  come  to  me  in  the  role 
of  a  secret  service  agent,  and  now  you  claim  to  be 
her  husband." 

"I'm  both." 

"Do  you  mean  me  to  understand  that  you're  ac 
cumulating  the  evidence  that  will  convict  your  wife?" 

"Convict  her  and,  I  regret  to  say,  hang  her. 
Stated  baldly,  that  is  my  purpose." 

Hindwood  perched  himself  on  the  window  ledge 
and  regarded  his  guest  intently.  He  didn't  look  a 
monster ;  he  looked  in  all  respects  a  kindly,  well-bred 
gentleman,  and  yet,  if  what  he  had  just  heard  was 
correct,  there  were  few  monsters  in  history  who 
could  compare  with  him.  Hindwood  tried  to  picture 
him  as  Santa's  husband.  He  couldn't.  He  was 
thankful  that  he  couldn't.  For  a  reason  which  he 
did  not  distress  himself  to  analyze,  he  didn't  wish 
to  believe  that  she  had  ever  had  a  husband.  As  for 
the  hints  about  her  criminal  record  and  her  many 
lovers,  he  utterly  rejected  them.  Was  it  likely  that 
a  woman  so  royal  and  aloof  could  have  stooped  to 
the  gutter?  But  if  these  accusations  were  not  true, 
what  was  their  object?  Either  it  was  a  case  of 


72  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

mistaken  identity  and  there  were  two  Santa  Gorlofs, 
or  the  object  was  to  infuriate  him  with  jealousy  so 
that  he  would  blurt  out  all  he  knew. 

He  eyed  the  Major  doubtfully.  He  wasn't  in 
sane.  He  didn't  look  a  rascal.  And  yet,  what  hus 
band  in  his  senses ?  He  began  to  notice  details. 

The  Major  was  less  old  than  he  had  fancied  at  first ; 
he  was  more  worn  than  aged.  Illness  or  tragedy 
might  have  whitened  him.  It  was  even  possible  that 
he  had  made  himself  up  for  the  part  he  was  playing. 
His  eyes  were  clear,  and  his  hands  virile.  With  the 
mustache  and  imperial  removed 

"Major  Cleasby,  you  ask  me  to  accept  a  great 
deal  on  your  bare  word,"  he  said  politely.  "You 
come  to  me  with  nothing  to  introduce  you  but  the 
most  briefly  formal  letter.  The  moment  you  enter 
my  room,  before  you'll  have  anything  to  do  with  me, 
you  inspect  every  hiding-place  as  though  I  were  a 
counterfeiter  or  an  anarchist.  You  boldly  announce 
to  me  that  ever  since  I  landed  in  England  you've 
had  me  followed  and  observed.  You  use  the  results 
of  your  spying  as  a  kind  of  blackmail  to  induce  me 
to  present  you  with  the  sort  of  evidence  for  which 
you're  searching.  You  trick  me  into  telling  you 
about  a  shipboard  flirtation  with  a  woman  whom  you 
say  you  want  convicted  of  murder.  No  sooner  have 
I  told  you,  than  you  declare  that  you  yourself  are 
married  to  her.  I  ought  to  refuse  to  allow  this  in 
terview  to  go  further  without  calling  in  a  lawyer. 
I  don't  mean  to  be  offensive,  but  your  kaleidoscopic 
changes  put  a  strain  on  my  credulity.  I  can't  believe 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       73 

your  story  that  you're  a  secret  service  agent  en 
deavoring  to  get  your  wife  executed.  When  men 
tire  of  matrimony,  they  find  less  ingenious  methods 
of  recovering  their  bachelorhood." 

The  Major  smiled  with  his  patient  air  of  affa 
bility.  "It  isn't  my  bachelorhood  that  I'm  trying 
to  recover.  It's  my " 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  Hindwood  cut  in,  "I'd  like 
to  finish  my  say  first.  One  of  the  things  that  you 
may  not  have  learned  is  that  I'm  here  on  a  mission 
of  international  dimensions.  It  concerns  more  than 
one  of  the  governments  of  Europe.  I  can't  afford 
to  have  my  name  mixed  up  in  a  scandal  and,  what's 
more,  I  can  bring  influences  to  bear  to  prevent  it 
from  being  introduced.  You  may  be  anything  you 
like ;  whatever  you  are  cuts  no  ice.  I'm  through  with 
you  and  with  whatever  you  may  imagine  took  place 
on  the  Ryndam.  You  seem  to  think  that  I'm  con 
cealing  a  guilty  knowledge  that  would  enable  you 
to  bring  this  Gorlof  woman  to  trial.  You're  on 
the  wrong  tack.  I  have  no  such  knowledge.  The 
longer  you  stay  here,  the  more  you  waste  my  time." 

The  Major  was  on  the  point  of  answering  when 
the  telephone  rang  shrilly.  Grateful  for  a  diversion, 
Hindwood  crossed  the  room.  As  he  unhooked  the 
receiver,  he  glanced  across  his  shoulder,  "Excuse 
me." 

"Is  this  Mr.  Hindwood?" 

"It  is." 

It  was  the  hotel  operator  asking. 


74  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

"There's  a  call  for  you,  sir.  It's  from  some  one 
who's  not  on  a  newspaper.  Will  you  take  it?" 

"Certainly." 

There  was  a  pause  while  the  connection  was  being 
made;  then  a  foreign  voice,  a  woman's,  questioned, 
"Eees  thees  Meester  Hindwood?  Eef  you  please, 
one  meenute.  A  lady  wants  to  talk  wiz  you." 

Coming  across  the  distance,  subdued  and  earnest, 
he  caught  the  tones  of  a  voice  which  was  instantly 
familiar. 

"Don't  be  startled.  Don't  answer  me.  There's 
a  man  with  you.  Tell  him  nothing.  If  you  ever 
loved  me,  even  for  a  second,  don't  believe  a  word 
he  says." 

She  had  not  been  arrested!  A  wave  of  joy  swept 
over  him.  The  uncertainty  as  to  whether  she  was 
arrested  had  been  crushing  him. 

He  waited,  hoping  she  would  speak  again. 

Shattering  the  spell  with  a  touch  of  bathos,  the 
operator  inquired,  "Number?" 

With  that  he  rang  off.  As  he  raised  his  head,  he 
had  the  uncomfortable  sensation  that  the  Major  had 
turned  away  from  watching  him. 


VI 


"So  you  want  to  be  rid  of  me!"  The  Major 
glanced  across  his  shoulder,  at  the  same  time  making 
no  effort  to  remove  himself. 

Hindwood    crossed    the    room    thoughtfully    and 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       75 

seated  himself.  "I've  made  no  secret  of  it  from  the 
moment  you  entered." 

The  Major  laughed  genially.  "I  don't  blame  you. 
You  think  I'm  a  wronged  husband  trying  to  get 
even,  or  else  an  unscrupulous  detective  baiting  traps 
with  falsehoods.  The  situation's  unpleasant — for 
you,  especially." 

"I'm  glad  you  realize  it." 

"I  assure  you  I  do.  You've  given  yourself  away 
completely." 

"You  think  so?" 

"I  don't  think;  I  know.  What  you've  told  me 
proves  beyond  a  doubt  that  you're  possessed  of  ex 
actly  the  knowledge  that  would  bring  Santa  Gorlof 
to  trial." 

"You're  imaginative." 

"I'm  observant.  You're  wondering  what  makes 
me  so  certain.  The  explanation's  simple:  I've 
studied  Santa's  tactics.  Her  strategy's  the  same  in 
every  instance.  When  a  man  suspects  her  guilt,  she 
does  what  she  did  to  you:  seals  his  mouth  with 
kisses." 

"This  is  too  much."  Hindwood  brought  his  fist 
down  with  a  bang.  "Do  you  go  or  do  I  have  to 
force  you?" 

"This  time  I'll  try  one  of  yours." 

With  astounding  assurance  the  Major  helped  him 
self  to  one  of  Hindwood's  cigars,  which  he  had  pre 
viously  rejected.  Without  bravado  he  lighted  it 
and,  having  ascertained  that  it  was  drawing,  con 
tinued:  "If  you  used  force,  you'd  regret  it.  You'd 


76  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

make  certain  of  the  unwelcome  publicity  you're  so 
anxious  to  avoid;  you'd  miss  a  stranger  story  than 
any  Arabian  tale  that  ever  was  concocted.  You 
think  you  can  still  touch  bottom;  as  a  matter  of 
fact  you're  already  out  of  sight  of  land.  You  sit 
there  looking  an  average,  successful  American;  ac 
tually  you've  become  an  heroic  figure,  adrift  upon  an 
ocean  so  romantic  and  uncharted  that  it  beats  upon 
the  cliffs  of  every  human  passion." 

Hindwood  shifted  uneasily.  "So  you're  a  fortune 
teller  in  addition  to  being  an  ill-used  husband  and  a 
detective !" 

Ignoring  his  sarcasm,  the  Major  proceeded: 
"Some  time  ago  you  accused  me  of  ingenuity  in  the 
means  I  had  adopted  to  recover  my  bachelorhood. 
It's  not  my  bachelorhood,  but  my  own  and  my  coun 
try's  honor  that,  with  your  help,  I'm  endeavoring  to 
recover.  That  sounds  extravagant?  But  consider 
— what  motive  could  be  sufficiently  extravagant  to 
compel  a  man  to  bend  all  his  energies  toward  bring 
ing  the  woman  whom  he  loves  to  the  scaffold?  Be 
cause  I  say  it  calmly,  you  doubt  that  I  love  her. 
What  man  could  help  loving  her?  She's  the  last  of 
a  long  line  of  false,  fair  women  who've  stirred  up 
madness  and  left  behind  a  trail  of  ruin." 

Rising  wearily,  Hindwood  turned  his  back  and 
commenced  fingering  the  documents  on  his  desk. 
"There'll  be  nothing  gained  by  carrying  this  dis 
cussion  further." 

With  a  question  the  Major  recaptured  his  atten- 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       77 

tion.      "Did  it   ever  strike  you   that   she's   partly 
Asiatic?" 

Hindwood    swung    round,    surprised    into    truth. 
"What  makes  you  ask  it  ?" 


VII 


"Even  to  myself,"  the  Major  sighed,  "the  story 
which  I  am  about  to  tell  sounds  incredible.  My 
reason  for  confiding  it  to  a  stranger  is  that,  when 
you  have  heard  it,  you  may  dispense  with  chivalry 
and  become  stern  enough  to  do  your  duty.  To  pro 
tect  a  woman,  whatever  her  age  or  looks,  is  an  in 
stinct  as  primitive  as  religion.  When  she  happens 
to  be  beautiful  and  the  object  of  your  affection,  not 
to  protect  her  is  a  kind  of  blasphemy.  You  and  I, 
though  you  deny  it,  are  both  in  love  with  Santa.  I 
am  her  husband,  while  you  are  no  more  than  her 
chance-met  admirer.  Yet  you,  in  her  hour  of  dan 
ger,  are  prepared  to  shield  her  with  your  honor, 
whereas  I  am  among  the  most  relentless  of  her 
pursuers. 

"The  best  part  of  my  life  has  been  spent  in  India. 
I  went  there  with  my  regiment  when  I  was  little  more 
than  a  boy.  The  fascination  of  an  ancient  civiliza 
tion  took  possession  of  my  imagination.  I  became  a 
student  of  it  and  soon  acquired  a  knowledge  of  na 
tive  habits  which  was  more  fitting  to  a  secret  agent 
than  to  a  soldier.  I  learned  to  speak  many  dialects 
and  could  pass  myself  off  as  an  Asiatic  with  the 


73  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

minimum  amount  of  disguise.  Instead  of  frequent 
ing  clubs  and  idling  away  my  leisure  in  the  usual 
round  of  social  futilities  which  make  up  the  average 
Anglo-Indian's  life,  I  formed  the  practice  of  slipping 
out  into  the  night  and  losing  my  identity  in  the 
teeming,  Oriental  shadow-world  by  which  I  was  sur 
rounded. 

"On  one  of  my  wanderings — when  or  where  it  is 
not  necessary  to  particularize — I  strolled  into  a 
temple  and  saw  a  young  girl  dancing.  As  perhaps 
you  know,  girls  are  dedicated  to  the  worship  of  cer 
tain  gods  and  goddesses  at  a  very  early  age.  They 
are  for  the  most  part  deities  who  symbolize  fecun 
dity;  the  ritual  with  which  they  are  celebrated  is 
gross.  The  temple  girls  are  chosen  for  their  beauty 
and  are  trained  by  the  priesthood  to  perform  sen 
sual  dances,  which  are  as  old  as  time.  They  are  not 
nuns  or  priestesses ;  their  social  status,  if  they  may 
be  said  to  have  any  in  a  land  where  woman  is  at  best 
a  plaything,  approximates  to  that  of  temple  slaves. 
They  are  taken  from  their  parents  at  an  age  when 
sahibs'  children  are  in  nurseries.  From  the  moment 
they  are  dedicated,  their  minds  and  souls  are  left  to 
stagnate;  they  are  treated  like  performing  animals 
— fed  and  drilled  and  degraded  that  they  may  em 
ploy  their  bodies  with  the  utmost  grace. 

"This  girl,  the  moment  I  saw  her,  impressed  me 
as  being  the  most  fascinating  human  creature  I 
had  ever  set  eyes  on.  I  had  pressed  in  with  the  crowd 
from  the  evil-smelling,  moonlit  street.  The  temple 
was  dim  with  the  smoke  of  swaying  censers.  Its 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       79 

walls  seemed  vast  with  the  flash  of  gold  and  jewels. 
At  the  far  end,  scarcely  discernible,  a  huge  god 
squatted,  gloating  and  sinister.  From  somewhere 
in  the  shadows,  swelling  into  frenzy,  came  the  pound 
ing  of  drums  and  the  clash  of  barbaric  music. 
Across  the  open  pavement,  between  the  god  and  the 
spectators,  a  chain  of  girls  coiled  and  twisted  like 
a  snake. 

"At  the  time  I  entered,  the  dance  was  nearly 
ended.  It  had  evidently  been  going  on  for  a  long 
while.  One  by  one  the  girls  were  slipping  down  ex 
hausted.  There  they  lay  disordered,  with  their  hair 
twined  about  them  and  their  slim,  bronze  bodies 
twitching. 

"But  one  girl  danced  on,  ever  quickening  her  pace, 
till  she  alone  remained.  She  was  like  a  streak  of 
flame,  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  a  spring  petal  blown  before 
the  wind:  she  seemed  the  symbol  of  everything  that 
is  young  and  pagan.  Her  childish  face  was  masked 
in  an  unchanging  smile.  Her  lips  were  parted ;  her 
body  gleamed  golden  among  the  muted  lights.  She 
stooped  and  darted  like  a  lizard  across  her  fallen 
comrades ;  with  one  leap  she  floated  through  the  air, 
perched  for  a  moment  on  the  knees  of  the  god,  and 
vanished  into  his  bosom.  Instantly  the  censers  were 
extinguished,  and  I  was  carried  out  into  the  evil- 
smelling  street  by  the  rush  of  the  perspiring  crowd. 

"From  that  night  it  was  as  though  I  were  be 
witched.  There  was  never  an  hour  when  that  drift 
ing  blossom  of  a  girl  was  absent  from  my  mind.  I 
idealized  her  into  a  nobility  that  was  more  than 


80  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

earthly.  I  flung  aside  all  sense  of  caste  and  race. 
I  forgot  that  J  was  a  sahib  and  over  thirty,  whereas 
she  was  a  dancing  girl  and  little  more  than  a  child. 
I  excused  my  infatuation  on  the  ground  of  magna 
nimity,  telling  myself  that  if  I  could  possess  her, 
I  could  save  her  from  certain  degradation.  Above 
all,  I  wanted  to  wipe  out  her  houri's  smile  and  to 
cause  the  soul  to  appear  in  her  eyes.  Every  hour 
that  I  could  spare,  I  disguised  myself  as  a  native 
and  haunted  the  temple.  At  rare  intervals  I  caught 
glimpses  of  her.  And  so  six  months  went  by. 

"Gradually  my  desire  strengthened  into  deter 
mination.  I  was  insane  with  chivalry — utterly  quix 
otic,  as  quixotic  as  you  are  now.  I  had  raised  her 
to  such  a  pinnacle  of  worship  that  a  liaison  was  not 
to  be  contemplated.  What  I  planned  was  to  carry 
her  off  and  marry  her.  When  you  remember  the  gulf 
which  the  Anglo-Indian  places  between  himself  and 
the  races  he  governs,  you  can  estimate  the  measure 
of  my  madness.  Such  an  act  would  entail  resigning 
from  my  regiment  and  inviting  social  ostracism  on 
every  hand.  It  meant  ruin,  but  to  my  impassioned 
mind  no  price  seemed  too  high  to  pay. 

"There  was  an  old  priest  who,  unknown  to  me, 
had  observed  my  comings  and  goings.  One  evening 
he  addressed  me  by  name.  While  I  was  hesitating 
as  to  what  could  be  his  motive,  he  volunteered  to 
obtain  the  gir!  for  me  if  I  would  reward  him  with 
a  sufficient  bnbe. 

"Three  nights  later,  as  I  waited,  a  door  in  the  tem 
ple  wall  opened,  and  a  muffled  figure  emerged.  With- 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       81 

out  a  word,  obeying  the  instructions  I  had  received, 
I  turned  away,  and  she  followed.  Through  the 
sleeping  city  we  crept,  like  a  pair  of  shadows. 

"In  the  European  quarter  I  had  secretly  rented  a 
bungalow  which  had  long  been  deserted.  It  stood  in 
a  wilderness  of  overgrown  shrubberies ;  a  high  wall 
went  about  it.  Not  until  the  rusty  gate  had  closed 
behind  us  did  I  dare  to  acknowledge  her  presence; 
then,  taking  her  in  ray  arms,  I  carried  her  up  the 
path  to  the  unlighted  house.  We  entered.  There 
were  just  the  two  of  us ;  I  had  not  risked  engaging 
servants.  In  the  darkness  I  set  her  down  and  lighted 
a  lamp.  As  the  flame  quickened  and  I  knelt  beside 
her,  she  uncovered  her  face.  So  far,  I  had  seen  her 
only  distantly.  It  was  the  moment  for  which  I  had 
waited.  Her  face  was  white." 

The  Major  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead. 
His  lips  tightened.  He  betrayed  every  sign  of  a 
man  doing  his  best  to  conceal  an  overpowering  emo 
tion.  He  leaned  back  and  gazed  up  at  the  ceiling, 
blowing  out  a  cloud  of  smoke.  When  he  had  watched 
it  disperse,  he  turned  to  Hindwood  with  a  depre 
cating  smile. 

"I  hope  I  don't  bore  you.  I'll  omit  the  ardors  and 
ecstasies  of  my  love-affair  and  stick  to  the  bare  out 
line.  What  I  discovered  was  that  she  was  an  Eura 
sian.  She  was  fourteen  years  of  age — a  woman  by 
Indian  standards,  but  still  a  child  by  ours.  Her 
eyes  were  gray,  and  her  complexion  was  so  light 
that,  with  any  one  but  an  expert,  she  could  have 
passed  for  a  European.  There  are  millions  of  dark- 


82  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

haired  women  with  her  coloring  to  be  found  in  any 
Latin  country.  Given  the  proper  manners  and  a 
European  setting,  scarcely  a  soul  would  have  sus 
pected  her.  Certainly  no  one  would  dare  to  voice 
his  suspicions  who  met  her  as  my  wife. 

"Her  history  I  pieced  together  from  many  conver 
sations.  Her  father  had  been  a  tea-planter — an 
Englishman  of  good  family.  Her  mother  had  been 
a  Burmese.  They  both  had  died  in  a  cholera  epi 
demic;  their  half-caste  child  had  been  picked  up 
from  the  highways  and  placed  in  the  temple. 

"Seeing  that  I  was  out  to  be  chivalrous,  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  do  the  thing  thoroughly.  I  hurried 
up  a  furlough  that  was  due  me  and,  taking  her  to 
France,  placed  her  in  a  convent.  My  reason  for 
choosing  France  was  that,  when  she  became  my  wife, 
there  would  be  fewer  chances  of  discovery  if  she 
passed  as  French  instead  of  English.  In  the  south, 
especially  in  Provence,  there  are  many  women  of  her 
type  descended  from  the  Saracens.  If  you've  been 
to  Aries,  you  must  have  noticed  them.  At  the  end 
of  three  years,  when  she  was  seventeen,  I  returned, 
married  her,  and  took  her  back  to  India.  If  any  one 
detected  the  deception,  no  one  was  bold  enough  to 
proclaim  it.  Every  circumstance  argued  against 
such  a  surmise.  She  had  forgotten  much  of  the 
English  she  had  known,  and  pretended  to  speak  only 
French.  I  had  coached  her  in  her  part ;  she  acted  it 
to  perfection.  By  no  hint  or  sign  did  she  let  the 
knowledge  escape  her  that  she  could  understand  a 
word  of  any  native  dialect.  So  far  as  I  am  aware, 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       83 

she   was   accepted   at   her   face  value,    as   a   young 
Provencal  whom  I  had  courted  in  her  own  country. 

"For  some  time  my  romantic  folly  brought  us 
nothing  but  happiness.  We  invented  a  legend  to 
account  for  her  family,  which,  through  continual 
repetition,  we  almost  came  to  believe  ourselves.  No 
two  people  were  ever  more  in  love.  Despite  our  dif 
ference  in  age  and  the  racial  gulf  which  divided  us, 
no  man  and  woman  ever  seemed  more  wisely  mated. 
Apparently  whatever  shameful  knowledge  she  had 
acquired  in  the  temple  had  been  blotted  out  by  her 
superimposed  refinement.  Even  to  me  she  betrayed 
no  hint  of  grossness ;  she  appeared  to  be  as  sweet  and 
innocent  as  the  girl  I  claimed  her  to  be — the  girl 
I  said  I  had  surprised  in  the  passionless  tranquility 
of  a  French  convent. 

"Her  devotion  to  myself  was  pathetic — it  verged 
on  adoration.  She  was  continually  contriving  new 
ways  of  rewarding  me  for  the  horrors  from  which 
I  had  saved  her.  To  me  the  ground  she  trod  was 
sacred.  I  delighted  in  making  myself  her  slave.  We 
competed  with  each  other  in  generosity.  With  each 
of  us  the  other's  slightest  whim  was  law.  She  was 
unbelievably  beautiful,  the  most  mysteriously  beauti 
ful  woman  in  India.  I  was  more  than  twice  her  years 
and  the  envy  of  every  man  who  saw  her.  Her  beauty 
seemed  only  the  outshining  of  her  goodness.  Save 
for  an  accident,  I  should  never  have  known  other 
wise. 

"We  had  been  married  two  years  when  she  bore 
me  a  child.  Our  dread,  when  we  knew  that  she  was 


84  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

to  become  a  mother,  was  that  our  offspring  might 
reveal  the  Asiatic  strain.  We  took  every  precaution 
to  hide  the  fact,  if  this  should  happen.  But  even 
this  was  spared  us.  Our  boy  was  blue-eyed  and 
flaxen-haired  as  any  Anglo-Saxon.  She  worshiped 
him.  He  seemed  to  symbolize  Heaven's  blessing  on 
the  lie  we  practiced.  He  was  never  out  of  her 
sight.  In  her  fear  lest  he  might  develop  some  native 
characteristic,  she  refused  to  have  an  ayah  and 
cared  for  him  entirely.  Wherever  she  went,  she 
kept  him  with  her;  he  slept  in  our  room  at  night. 
So  perfectly  had  she  drilled  herself  that,  up  to  this 
point,  I  can  not  recall  an  instance  in  which  she  had 
fallen  below  the  level  of  a  well-born  white  woman. 
It  was  the  finest  instinct  in  her  nature  that  proved 
her  undoing — her  mother-love  that  trapped  her  into 
the  self-revelation  which  produced  our  tragedy. 

"Our  child  was  a  sturdy  little  fellow  of  nearly 
two,  just  beginning  to  run  about,  when  suddenly  he 
died.  We  had  a  house-party  at  the  time.  His 
mother  was  playing  tennis.  While  she  was  playing, 
he  was  strangled  and  thrown  down  a  well  by  a  native 
servant  who  believed  he  had  been  slighted.  My  wife, 
missing  the  child,  went  in  search  of  him  in  panic 
and  caught  the  native  in  the  act  of  getting  rid  of 
the  body.  Instantly  she  reverted  to  what  her  mother 
had  been  before  her.  Snatching  the  man's  knife, 
she  killed  him  before  any  of  her  guests  could  re 
strain  her.  In  the  abandonment  of  her  grief,  she 
became  an  out  and  out  Burmese  woman,  scattering 
dust  on  her  hair,  beating  her  breasts,  and  rending 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       85 

her  clothes  with  the  wildest  lamentations.  The  fic 
tion  of  her  French  origin  was  utterly  destroyed. 
There  was  no  longer  any  doubt  among  those  who 
witnessed  her  that  I  was  married  to  an  Eurasian. 

"Our  position  at  once  became  intolerable.  A  half- 
caste  is  despised  the  world  over,  but  in  India  espe 
cially.  That  night  every  servant  left.  None  of  our 
friends  came  near  us.  We  sat  alone  with  our  grief 
in  a  deserted  house.  As  her  calmness  returned,  she 
grew  tragically  contrite — not  contrite  from  any 
moral  sense,  but  because  she  had  given  away  our 
secret.  She  seemed  incapable  of  appreciating  that 
she  had  done  any  wrong  in  depriving  justice  of  its 
victim.  When  I  tried  to  explain  to  her  that  she  had 
committed  a  crime,  she  shook  her  head  impatiently, 
insisting  that  she  had  done  what  any  mother  ought 
to  do  under  the  circumstances.  When  I  pressed  the 
subject  she  became  persuaded  that  I,  too,  was  blam 
ing  her,  and  then  that  I  had  never  properly  loved 
either  her  or  her  child.  And  yet  I  think  I  never 
loved  her  more  tenderly  than  at  that  moment. 

"A  week  later,  after  miserable  days  and  nights  of 
suspense,  we  received  our  sentence.  Native  sedition 
was  running  high.  The  Government  did  not  dare  to 
bring  the  wife  of  a  British  officer  to  trial.  Such  a 
course  would  have  proved  too  damaging  to  the  pres 
tige  of  Anglo-Indian  officialdom.  I  was  promised 
that  the  scandal  would  be  hushed  up  and  I  should 
be  given  a  new  employment,  if  I  would  agree  to  ship 
her  out  of  India  at  once  and  to  see  to  it  that  she 
never  returned.  What  it  amounted  to  for  me  was 


86  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

perpetual  separation  and  for  her  perpetual  banish 
ment. 

"I  have  often  tried  to  arrive  at  a  sane  conclusion 
as  to  how  far  I  am  the  author  of  what  she  has  be 
come.  Had  I  shared  her  banishment  there  can  be 
little  doubt  that  her  white  blood  would  have  kept 
control  of  her  poisoned  heritage.  Unfortunately  I 
had  a  living  to  earn.  Professionally  I  was  broken. 
My  savings  were  inconsiderable.  I  had  her  to  main 
tain.  I  was  past  mid-life  and  by  leaving  India 
would  have  sacrificed  the  pension  that  was  already 
in  sight.  Moreover,  I  knew  of  no  way  of  marketing 
my  training  in  any  country  outside  India.  So  I 
played  safe  and  bowed  to  authority.  I  resigned 
from  my  regiment  and  was  transferred  to  the  depart 
ment  of  military  intelligence.  After  knowing  the 
security  of  a  home  and  wife,  at  past  forty  I  became 
a  secret  agent,  a  spy  and  a  wanderer,  a  friendless 
and  unfriendly  man,  unsociable  and  socially  unac 
ceptable.  As  for  my  wife,  aged  only  twenty-one, 
she  was  exiled  to  England,  a  stranger  in  a  gray, 
chill  country,  bankrupt  in  her  happiness,  with  no 
one  to  defend  her,  taking  with  her  the  temptation 
of  her  unusual  beauty  and  the  treacherous  inherit 
ance  of  her  intermingled  blood. 

"There  seemed  no  justice  in  the  world  for  either 
of  us.  The  offending  cause  of  our  punishment  was 
the  protective  motherhood  which  had  prompted  her 
to  slay  the  killer  of  our  child.  But,  to  use  your  terse 
Americanism,  we  were  'up  against'  blind  angers  and 
racial  prejudices,  which  no  amount  of  bucking  on 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       87 

our  part  could  change.  So  far  as  she  was  concerned, 
even  before  her  life  had  started,  she  had  been  con 
demned.  The  initial  sin  had  been  her  parents'  when 
they  had  allowed  themselves  to  create  her.  Before 
she  had  seen  daylight,  the  uncharity  of  mankind  had 
proclaimed  her  a  half-caste  and  a  pariah.  From  her 
inherited  fate  I  had  tried  to  snatch  her  when  I  had 
bought  her  from  the  temple.  You  may  say  that  my 
recklessness  was  nothing  more  than  selfishness, 
pharisaically  parading  as  chivalry;  in  allowing  her 
to  bear  me  a  child,  I  had  only  reduplicated  the  crime 
of  her  parents.  Nevertheless,  I  had  tried  to  rescue 
her  and  could  have  succeeded,  had  not  her  mother- 
love  ensnared  her.  She  was  betrayed  by  the  purest 
instinct  in  her  nature;  she  was  shown  no  more 
leniency  than  if  it  had  been  the  basest.  There  lay 
the  cruelty  that  rankled.  She  was  judged  not  by 
motives,  but  by  results.  She  would  have  been  par 
doned  and  applauded,  had  she  been  a  full-blooded 
white  woman. 

"In  spite  of  all  these  accumulated  injustices,  I 
believe  she  would  have  retained  the  strength  to  go 
straight  had  there  been  any  limit  to  our  separation. 
There  was  none.  For  all  the  comfort  that  I  could 
be  to  her,  I  might  just  as  well  have  been  dead  or 
divorced  from  her.  I  was  all  that  remained  out  of 
the  ruin  that  had  overtaken  her,  yet  the  most  to 
which  she  could  look  forward,  save  for  brief  meet 
ings  at  long  intervals,  was  that  I  would  be  restored 
to  her  in  my  useless  old  age,  when  the  glorious  flood- 


88  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

tide  of  her  youth  had  receded.  You  see  I  am  suffi 
ciently  unbiased  to  be  able  to  plead  her  case." 

The  Major  rose  and,  going  over  to  the  window, 
stood  with  his  back  toward  Hindwood,  gazing  out 
into  the  night.  Some  minutes  had  elapsed,  when  he 
turned  quietly. 

"Where  had  I  got  to  ?  Ah,  yes !  To  where  I  had 
to  send  her  to  England !  I  accompanied  her  to  Cal 
cutta  to  see  her  safely  on  the  liner.  Shall  I  ever 
forget  that  journey?  It  had  the  gloom  of  a  funeral 
and  the  frenzy  of  an  elopement.  Actually  my  role 
was  that  of  a  policeman  deporting  a  miscreant  who 
happened  to  be  his  wife.  We  tried  to  pack  into 
moments  the  emotions  of  a  lifetime.  As  background 
to  our  love-making  was  the  poignant  memory  of  the 
puzzled  child,  whom  seven  years  earlier  I  had  es 
corted  on  the  same  journey,  en  route  for  France, 
where  she  was  to  be  made  over  into  a  sahib's  lady. 
In  her  wondering  attitude  toward  the  fortunes  that 
assailed  her,  she  was  little  changed.  She  was  still 
startlingly  unsophisticated — a  child-woman,  danger 
ously  credulous  and  deceivingly  unversed  in  mascu 
line  wiles.  I  had  taught  her  to  be  so  dependent  that 
I  dared  not  imagine  how  she  would  do  without  me. 
She  was  so  artless.  She  took  such  pleasure  in 
admiration.  Love  was  so  necessary  to  her;  it  was 
the  breath  of  her  life.  Its  misuse  had  been  the 
breath  and  the  means  of  life  of  her  Burmese  mother 
before  her. 

"Her  complete  lack  of  comprehension  that  I  in 
any  way  shared  her  sacrifice  formed  the  most  dis- 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       89 

tressing  part  of  my  ordeal.  She  assumed  that  she 
was  being  exiled  by  my  choice.  She  persisted  in 
talking  as  if  she  could  stay,  if  I  would  only  change 
my  mind.  Though  she  did  not  accuse  me  in  words, 
she  believed  that  I  was  ridding  myself  of  her  because 
she  had  disgraced  me — that  I  was  pushing  her  across 
the  horizon,  where  she  would  be  forgotten  and  out 
of  sight.  Up  to  the  last  moment  she  pleaded  with 
and  coaxed  me,  as  though  it  were  I  who  was  refusing 
to  repeal  her  sentence.  The  ship  cast  off,  bearing 
her  from  me  with  her  broken  heart  and  her  embit 
tered  memories  of  the  newly-dug  grave,  while  I 
turned  back  to  ferret  through  the  gutters  of  Asia, 
that  I  might  earn  the  wherewithal  to  provide  for 
her. 

"At  first  she  wrote  many  times  a  day ;  then  every 
day;  then  regularly  to  catch  each  outgoing  mail. 
In  the  whole  of  England  she  knew  nobody.  In  her 
anger  against  British  justice  she  wished  to  know 
nobody.  She  was  inconsolable,  bruised  in  spirit,  and 
crushed  in  her  pride.  After  the  pomp  and  hubbub 
of  the  East,  she  found  London  drab  and  melan 
choly.  From  her  lodgings  in  Kensington  she  poured 
out  her  soul  on  paper.  Much  of  what  she  wrote  con 
sisted  of  memories,  the  tender  trifles  which  a  mother 
treasures  about  her  child. 

"Gradually,  almost  imperceptibly,  there  came  a 
change.  A  querulous  note  crept  in,  a  questioning 
of  motives.  Why  had  I  sent  her  as  far  away  as 
England?  Why  had  I  sent  her  away  at  all?  If  it 
were  true  that  it  was  not  I  who  had  exiled  her,  why 


90  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

had  I  not  accompanied  her?  Was  it  because  I  was 
tired  and  ashamed  of  her?  It  would  have  been 
kinder  to  have  left  her  to  dance  in  the  temple.  Then 
a  new  suspicion  grew  up,  which  betrayed  an  evil 
that  I  had  never  traced  in  her.  With  whom  was 
I  living?  Some  white  woman?  Was  that  why  I 
had  rid  myself  of  her? 

"What  answers  could  I  make?  It  was  like  argu 
ing  with  a  spiteful  child.  Our  misunderstandings 
were  as  wide  as  the  distance  that  separated  us.  She 
implored  and  finally  demanded  that  I  should  join 
her.  The  more  I  stated  obstacles,  the  more  con 
vinced  she  became  that  I  was  cruel,  like  all  the 
sahibs  who  were  torturing  her — the  proud  sahibs 
who  thought  nothing  of  a  murdered  baby,  when  it 
was  only  the  child  of  a  half-caste  woman. 

"From  then  on  her  heart  hardened,  till  at  last  I 
failed  to  recognize  in  her  any  resemblance  to  the 
gentle  wife  who  had  been  so  much  my  companion. 
She  wrote  vaguely  about  revenge,  a  revenge  that 
should  embrace  the  whole  white  race.  Contempt 
should  be  repaid  with  despising,  hatred  with  blows, 
blood  with  blood.  Her  beauty  should  be  the  weapon. 
She  seemed  to  have  gone  mad.  Suddenly  her  letters 
ceased.  My  remittances  were  returned;  they  had 
failed  to  reach  her. 

"For  what  follows  I  have  but  one  explanation.  By 
some  species  of  unconscious  hypnotism,  so  long  as 
I  had  exerted  physical  influence  over  her,  I  had  had 
the  power  to  make  the  European  in  her  predominate. 
As  my  influence  weakened  with  time  and  distance,  she 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       91 

relapsed  into  the  woman  she  always  would  have  been, 
if  I  had  not  found  her :  a  smiling  menace  to  the  nobili 
ties  of  both  the  races  from  which  she  was  descended, 
a  human  jackal  following  the  hunt.  That  sounds 
harsh?  Then  listen  to  the  conclusion  of  my  story. 
"One  day,  six  months  after  I  had  lost  touch  with 
her,  I  was  glancing  through  an  illustrated  weekly 
when,  on  turning  a  page,  I  found  her  portrait  gazing 
up  at  me.  She  was  photographed  in  almost  the 
attitude  and  attire  in  which  I  had  first  caught  sight 
of  her  in  the  temple.  The  very  setting  was  similar; 
behind  her  the  huge  god  squatted,  gloating  and 
sinister — on  her  face  was  the  unchanging  houri's 
smile.  On  reading  the  text  I  discovered  that  she  had 
leaped  into  instant  fame  as  an  exponent  of  Indian 
dancing.  You  will  remember  that  in  the  last  two 
years  before  the  war  the  dance  craze  was  at  its  height. 
She  had  been  acclaimed  a  great  artist ;  everything  she 
said,  did,  and  wore  was  fulsomely  praised  and  de 
scribed.  There  was  no  false  reticence  about  either 
her  or  her  admirers;  she  was  frankly  advertised  as 
being  possessed  of  the  most  beautiful  body  in  Eu 
rope.  She  had  given  herself  a  French  name  and  was 
announced  as  being  of  French  ancestry.  According 
to  her  printed  biography,  her  father  had  been  an 
orchid-hunter  who  had  taken  her  with  him  on  all  his 
expeditions.  On  his  last,  in  India,  he  had  died; 
she  had  been  kidnaped  for  her  beauty  and  sold  into 
the  service  of  a  Hindoo  temple.  From  this  bondage 
she  had  been  rescued  by  an  Englishman  of  title  who 
had  chivalrously  restored  her  to  her  family  in  Mar- 


92  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

seilles.  There  was  much  more  to  the  same  effect — a 
jumble  of  perverted  truth  and  romantic  lies,  precisely 
the  kind  of  adventurous  nonsense  which  appeals  to 
the  sensation-seeking  public. 

"From  then  on,  via  the  press,  I  was  always  getting 
news  of  her.  London,  Paris,  Berlin,  St.  Petersburg, 
each  in  turn  went  mad  over  her.  She  captivated  a 
continent.  Kings  and  emperors  commanded  her  to 
appear  before  them.  Her  tours  were  royal  triumphs. 
Little  by  little  ugly  rumors  began  to  spread.  There 
was  a  Parisian  banker  who,  when  he  had  lavished  his 
all  upon  her,  committed  suicide,  leaving  his  wife  and 
children  penniless.  There  was  another  scandal;  it 
had  to  do  with  a  Russian  general  who  had  betrayed 
his  country.  At  his  court-martial  he  poisoned  him 
self  when  her  name  was  introduced  into  the  evidence. 
As  though  a  conspiracy  of  silence  had  broken  down, 
now  that  she  began  to  be  gossiped  about,  scandals 
gathered  thick  and  fast.  Each  new  one  was  more 
infamous  than  the  last ;  out  of  each  she  emerged  un- 
pitying  and  smiling.  It  was  only  her  victims  who 
suffered.  Her  progress  was  marked  by  a  trail  of 
death  and  ruin.  Nevertheless,  infatuated  by  the  ex- 
quisiteness  of  her  body,  men  fluttered  about  her  un 
ceasingly,  like  moths,  shriveling  their  souls  in  the 
flame  of  her  fascination.  When  the  peace  of  the 
world  was  violated  by  the  Germans — 

Hindwood  leaned  forward,  tapping  the  Major's 
knee.  "I  can  spare  you  your  eloquence.  The  rest 
of  your  story  is  common  property.  The  woman  you 
describe  stole  the  Allies*  anti-submarine  defense  plans 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       93 

from  her  lover.  He  was  a  British  naval  officer, 
temporarily  in  Paris.  She  was  caught  red-handed. 
There  was  a  sentimental  agitation  in  her  favor — an 
attempt  to  argue  that  as  a  physical  masterpiece  of 
feminine  perfection  she  ought  to  be  exempted.  It  ac 
complished  nothing.  She  was  a  German  spy,  who  had 
sold  men's  lives  for  profit.  She  received  and  deserved 
no  more  mercy  than  a  rag-picker.  After  having 
been  encouraged  in  her  sins  because  of  her  unrivaled 
loveliness,  she  was  led  out  at  dawn  in  the  woods  of 
Vincennes,  where  the  body  which  had  maddened  thou 
sands  of  eyes  was  riddled  with  bullets." 

The  Major's  lips  were  smiling  crookedly.  "How 
could  she  have  been  riddled  with  bullets,"  he  ques 
tioned,  "when  you  crossed  the  Atlantic  in  her  com 
pany?" 

Hindwood  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "If  you  insist 
on  propounding  conundrums,  it's  up  to  you  to  supply 
the  answers." 

"I  can  supply  them.  The  person  executed  in  the 
woods  of  Vrincennes  was  not  a  woman." 

"That's  a  daring  assertion.     Who  was  it?" 

"A  distinguished  French  officer,  a  man  who  had 
been  crippled  in  defending  his  country  and  held  the 
highest  awards  for  gallantry.  In  pre-war  days  he 
had  been  an  old  flame  of  hers,  whom  she  had  aban 
doned  with  more  than  her  ordinary  callousness.  On 
hearing  of  her  predicament,  he  begged  to  be  allotted 
the  duty  of  seeing  that  her  sentence  was  properly 
executed.  The  reason  he  gave  was  that  he  might 
clear  himself  of  the  taint  of  ever  having  associated 


94  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

with  a  traitress.  He  was  put  in  charge  of  the  guard 
on  her  last  night.  Making  use  of  his  opportunity, 
he  exchanged  clothing  with  her  and — '* 

Hindwood  stifled  a  yawn.  "You  expect  me  to 
believe  this?" 

The  Major  mastered  his  anger.  "I  expect  you  to 
believe  nothing.  I'm  here  to  state  facts  and  to  warn 
you  that  your  friend,  who  now  calls  herself  Santa 
Gorlof,  is  the  same  woman.  My  appeal  to  you  for 
assistance  in  bringing  her  to  justice  is  both  personal 
and  patriotic.  I  am  her  husband;  my  honor  is  in 
volved.  I  am  also  an  Englishman ;  all  her  intrigues, 
even  this  last,  in  which  Prince  Rogovich  met  his  fate, 
are  aimed  against  the  friends  of  England — one  of 
whom,  I  may  remind  you,  is  your  own  great  nation. 
All  I  can  say  is  that  each  man  has  his  separate 
standard  of  loyalty.  For  me,  an  old  soldier,  my 
devotion  to  my  country  is  more  important  than  my 
compassion  for  an  erring  woman." 

Hindwood  rose.  Uncomfortably,  against  his  will, 
he  had  been  impressed  by  the  stoical  dignity  of  his 
persistent  guest.  "You  deserve  that  I  should  be 
frank  with  you.  Here's  the  truth — I  accept  very 
little  of  what  you've  told  me.  Either  you've  mistaken 
my  traveling  companion  for  another  woman,  or  else 
you've  been  trying  to  prejudice  me  with  a  fantastic 
story.  But  even  though  I  accepted  your  supposed 
revelation,  I  should  refuse  to  help  you.  On  your  own 
showing,  you're  endeavoring  to  bring  the  mother  of 
your  child  to  the  scaffold.  I  should  respect  you  more 
if  you  left  her  fate  to  other  hands.  Disbelieving  you, 


THE  RETURN  OF  SANTA  GORLOF       95 

as  I  do,  I  regard  the  introduction  of  Miss  Gorlof's 
name  into  the  discussion  as  rank  impertinence.  Your 
coupling  of  my  name  with  hers  increases  the  coward 
ice  of  your  discourtesy.  If  you  had  convinced  me 
and  I  were  eager  to  assist  you,  I  couldn't.  I  know 
nothing  about  her — our  acquaintance  was  the  most 
casual.  In  all  probability  I've  seen  her  for  the  last 
time;  I  haven't  the  vaguest  notion  where  she's  to  be 
found.  If  your  half-caste  vampire  actually  escaped 
the  bullets  in  the  woods  of  Vincennes,  I  advise  you  to 
search  for  her  in  another  direction.  You  may  take 
my  word  for  it  that  if  Santa  Gorlof  learns  of  your 
activities,  you'll  find  yourself  in  trouble.  I  reckon 
myself  some  judge  when  it  comes  to  character." 

The  Major  drew  out  his  silk  handkerchief  from 
his  breast  pocket  and  flicked  a  speck  of  dust  from  his 
immaculate  white  spats.  With  the  utmost  delibera 
tion  he  recovered  his  hat  and  gloves.  For  a  few 
seconds  he  gazed  out  of  the  window  thoughtfully; 
then,  turning  slowly,  he  crossed  the  room.  With  his 
hand  on  the  door  knob,  he  glanced  back  solemnly. 
He  passed  his  fingers  across  his  lips  and  cleared  his 
throat.  "When  she  has  added  you  to  her  list  of  vic 
tims,  if  she  gives  you  time  before  she  kills  you,  re 
member  that  I  warned  you." 

When  Hindwood  had  recovered  sufficiently  from 
his  surprise  to  follow  him  out  into  the  passage,  every 
sign  of  his  unwelcome  visitor  had  vanished. 

He  had  scarcely  closed  the  door  and  reseated 
himself,  when  again  there  came  a  tapping. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRD 

HE    PLUNGES    INTO    ROMANCE 


HIND  WOOD  consulted  his  watch;  the  hour  was 
nearing  midnight.  He  was  surprised  to  dis 
cover  how  the  time  had  flown.  The  tapping  outside 
his  door  continued.  There  was  nothing  hurried 
about  it,  nothing  impatient.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  was  nothing  humble.  It  was  a  secret,  intimate 
kind  of  tapping,  like  the  signaling  of  a  woman  to  her 
lover.  It  would  cease  for  a  minute,  so  that  he  began 
to  hope  that  he  was  to  be  left  in  quiet ;  then  it  would 
recommence. 

He  sat  obstinately  at  bay,  almost  holding  his 
breath,  not  daring  to  move  lest  he  should  betray  that 
he  had  noticed.  He  was  determined  not  to  admit 
this  new  disturber.  He  had  had  enough  of  danger 
warnings  and  revengeful  husbands.  The  only  dan 
ger  that  he  greatly  dreaded  was  the  loss  of  a  second 
night's  rest. 

The  sound  was  getting  on  his  nerves.  It  was  so  ir- 
ritatingly  discreet  and  importunate.  At  first  he  had 
tried  to  believe  that  his  caller  was  a  hotel  employee, 
but  a  servant  would  have  taken  silence  for  an  answer 
a  good  five  minutes  ago.  If  it  had  been  any  one  who 

96 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE         97 

had  a  right  to  be  there,  the  tapping  would  have  been 
bolder.  Whoever  it  was,  it  was  some  one  who  had 
correctly  estimated  his  mood. 

Tap-a-tap,  tap-a-tap.  An  interval,  and  then, 
tap-a-tap. 

Getting  stealthily  to  his  feet,  he  tiptoed  to  the 
threshold  and  flung  wide  the  door. 

"I  beg  your  pardon."  He  caught  her  arm  as  she 
stumbled  back.  "I  guess  I  startled  you." 

"Shish!"  She  pressed  a  finger  to  her  lips.  "Let 
me  inside,  so  that  I  can  sit  down." 

Giving  her  his  arm,  he  led  her  to  a  chair.  Having 
returned  and  closed  the  door,  he  surveyed  her  at  his 
leisure. 

She  had  the  appearance  of  a  peasant  woman 
dressed  in  her  Sunday  best,  yet  so  great  was  her 
dignity,  she  did  not  seem  out  of  place  in  her  sur 
roundings.  She  was  very  aged ;  her  figure  was  shape 
less  and  bowed.  Her  gray  hair  was  cropped  like  a 
bo}r's ;  she  wore  spread  over  it,  knotted  at  the 
throat,  a  neatly  folded  kerchief  of  white  linen.  {She 
was  clad  in  a  black  gown  of  the  utmost  plainness. 
Nothing  distracted  attention  from  her  face,  which 
was  as  stoical  with  endurance  as  a  gladiator's.  You 
could  almost  trace  the  riverbeds  her  tears  had  worn. 
The  fist  of  fate  had  punched  it  flat.  It  was  a  ruin  to 
which  violence  had  done  its  worst,  but  had  failed 
to  destroy  its  gentleness.  And  he  had  expected 
Santa.  Instead  of  feminine  frailty,  spurring  weak 
desires,  there  had  come  this  woman,  iron  of  will, 
broken  in  body,  ravished  by  years,  with  her  tremen- 


98  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

dous  impression  of  moral  strength.  As  she  sat  be 
fore  him,  her  gnarled  hands  resting  on  her  cane, 
pushing  back  the  weight  of  her  ancient  shoulders, 
she  raised  to  him  the  dim  valiance  of  her  eyes. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  questioned. 

"Nothing."  She  swung  her  head  from  side  to  side 
with  the  brooding  fierceness  of  a  decrepit  lioness. 
"It  is  you  whom  I  have  come  to  help." 

"I !"  he  smiled.     "I  think  you  are  mistaken." 

"I  am  never  mistaken."  She  gazed  at  him  intently. 
"I  have  come  to  help  you  to  act  generously.  You 
have  it  in  your  power  to  save  a  woman,  perhaps  at 
the  sacrifice  of  yourself." 

He  laughed  quietly.  "You  mean  Santa  Gorlof. 
I  wonder  when  I'm  to  hear  the  last  of  her.  A  secret 
service  man  has  spent  the  past  two  hours  instructing 
me  what  I  can  do  for  her.  You  must  have  met  him. 
He  had  scarcely  left  when  you  began  to  tap.  He 
tried  to  convince  me  that  if  I  didn't  protect  myself 
by  giving  him  information  which  would  lead  to  her 
arrest,  my  name  would  be  added  to  her  list  of  victims. 
A  pleasant  sort  of  threat !  I'm  afraid  he  found  me, 
as  you  will  probably  find  me,  disappointing.  I'm 
not  possessed  of  any  incriminating  information,  and 
I  don't  place  any  faith  in  her  list  of  victims.  She 
struck  me  as  being  a  very  gracious  and  fascinating 
woman.  Beyond  that  I  have  no  opinion  about  her, 
either  for  oy  against." 

The  old  head  sank  further  forward;  the  dim  eyes 
became  searching.  "Then  you  told  him  nothing?" 

"I  knew  nothing  to  tell." 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE         99 

There  followed  a  deep  silence,  during  which  they 
gazed  fixedly  at  each  other.  She  sighed  contentedly, 
nodding  her  approval.  "So  you  are  in  love  with  her ! 
That  makes  things  easier.  Even  to  me  you  lie — to 
me  who  am  her  friend !" 

"I  deny  that  I  am  in  love  with  her,  but  what  makes 
you  think  so?'* 

"She  thinks  so." 

"Then  you  come  directly  from  her?" 

He  had  been  unable  to  keep  back  the  eagerness 
from  his  voice.  Instantly  he  realized  his  indiscretion. 
Pulling  up  a  chair,  he  seated  himself  opposite  her, 
that  he  might  lose  nothing  of  her  changes  of  ex 
pression. 

"You're  the  second  unconventional  visitor,"  he 
said,  "whom  I've  received  this  evening.  The  object 
of  both  your  visits  seems  to  be  the  same — to  associate 
my  name  with  that  of  a  lady  to  whom  I  am  compara 
tively  a  stranger.  We  may  have  conversed  together 
a  couple  of  dozen  times ;  when  we  parted,  I  never 
expected  to  hear  from  her.  Within  the  space  of 
twenty-four  hours  a  man  who  claims  to  be  her  hus 
band  comes  to  me  accusing  her  of  every  infamy.  No 
sooner  has  the  door  closed  behind  him  than  you  enter, 
asserting  that  I  am  in  love  with  her.  You  must  par 
don  rne  if  I  begin  to  suspect  a  plot.  For  all  I  know, 
you  may  be  my  first  visitor's  accomplice,  employing 
a  more  disarming  method  to  get  me  to  commit  my 
self.  You  tell  me  you  are  Santa  Gorlof 's  friend ;  you 
might  equally  well  say  you  are  her  grandmother — 
you  offer  me  no  proof.  If  she's  really  in  trouble,  I'm 


100  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

sorry.  But  I  fail  to  see  any  way  in  which  I  can 
serve  her." 

"If  there  were  no  way,  I  should  not  have  troubled 
you,  especially  at  this  late  hour.  As  for  her  being 
in  danger,  she  has  always  been  in  danger.  She  was 
born  into  the  world  like  that.  I  am  old — very  old. 
I  have  no  traces  of  it  left,  but  I,  too,  was  once 
beautiful." 

The  trembling  hands  fumbled  at  the  white  linen 
kerchief,  loosening  the  knot  against  her  neck.  "Ah, 
yes,  I  was  beautiful.  But  I  did  not  come  to  you  to 
speak  of  that.  My  friend,  you  are  good ;  I  saw  that 
the  moment  I  entered.  I  said  to  myself,  'There  is 
the  man  who  could  understand  our  Santa  and  make 
her  honorable  like  himself.'  The  world  has  given 
her  no  chance — no,  never.  The  husband  who  should 
have  cared  for  her  tossed  her  aside  like  an  old  shoe 
when,  like  all  animals  robbed  of  their  young,  she 
struck  out  in  self-defense.  I  see  you  have  heard  that 
— how  her  child  was  murdered  and  she  was  sent  into 
exile  for  taking  justice  into  her  own  hands.  Doubt 
less  you  have  heard  much  else.  She  is  a  woman  who 
would  have  done  no  harm  to  any  one  if  she  had 
been  allowed  to  remain  a  mother.  But  because  they 
scoffed  at  her  motherhood,  all  her  goodness  has 
turned  to  wickedness.  Using  her  body  as  a  decoy, 
she  has  slain  men  of  the  race  that  persecuted  her. 
Because  she  could  not  get  her  child  back,  she  has 
become  an  outlaw,  making  society  pay  for  her  loneli 
ness." 

She  paused,  watching  her  effect. 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE       101 

Hindwood  had  not  removed  his  eyes  from  hers. 
His  face  was  troubled.  "I  don't  think  you  know 
what  has  been  told  me.  The  man  who  introduced 
himself  to  me  as  her  husband  said  that  she  was  a 
half-caste,  a  temple  dancing-girl,  who  to  revenge 
herself  had  poisoned  white  men's  happiness  and 
during  the  war  had  become  an  international  spy, 
working  against  the  Allies,  He  made  the  assertion 
that  she  was  responsible  for  the  vanishing  of  Prince 
Rogovich.  If  these  things  are  so,  how  can  I,  a 
decent,  self-respecting  man — " 

Bending  forward,  the  old  lady  clutched  his  hand. 
"It  was  decent,  self-respecting  men  who  made  her 
what  she  is  to-day." 

He  released  his  hand  quietly.  "You  have  not  de 
nied  any  of  the  accusations  which  are  brought 
against  her.  And  yet,  remembering  her  face,  I  can 
not  believe  that  she  is  bad.  You  want  me  to  save  her. 
If  by  that  you  mean  that  you  want  me  to  pledge 
myself  not  to  give  evidence  against  her,  you  may 
tell  her  from  me  that  I  have  no  evidence." 

"I  don't  mean  that." 

"Then  what?" 

"I  want  you  to  declare  to  me  that  you  love  her. 
No,  listen.  There  is  still  something  in  her  that  is 
pure.  You  have  made  her  conscious  of  it.  You  can 
undo  the  wrong  that  has  been  done  her  and  make 
her  the  woman  she  should  be,  if  you  choose." 

Hindwood  rose  from  his  seat  and  paced  the  room. 
Suddenly  he  halted  and  swung  round.  "How  did 
you  know  that  I  desired  her?  Until  you  came,  I 


102  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

scarcely  realized  it  myself.  Why  should  you  have 
appointed  yourself  to  tempt  me — you,  who  are  so 
old?  Between  sane  people,  what  would  be  the  use 
of  my  telling  you  that  I  loved  her?  Though  I  re 
fused  to  believe  any  of  the  libels  against  her  which 
even  you  seem  to  credit,  there  are  two  facts  which 
it  does  not  seem  possible  to  escape:  that  she  is  mar 
ried  and  that  the  police  are  on  her  track.  I  have 
been  warned  that  when  she  traps  men,  she  commences 
by  appealing  to  their  chivalry.  That's  what's  hap^ 
pening  now.  Do  you  see  where  you  place  me?  If  she 
is  falsely  accused,  I  brand  myself  a  coward  by  run 
ning  away  from  her.  If  she  is  guilty,  I  endanger  my 
good  name  by  having  any  more  to  do  with  her. 
What  I  am  waiting  to  hear  you  say  is  that  this  is 
a  case  of  mistaken  identity — that  she  is  willing  and 
able  to  prove  it." 

"Will  you  help  me  out  of  my  chair?" 

When  she  was  on  her  feet,  she  let  go  his  arm  and 
commenced  to  move  across  the  room. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  give  her  your  message." 

"I've  told  you  nothing." 

"You've  told  me  that  you  love  her." 

She  was  on  the  point  of  leaving.  With  quiet  deci 
sion  he  put  his  back  against  the  door,  preventing 
her  from  opening  it. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "old  as  you  are,  you  owe  me 
some  consideration.  Before  you  go,  I  at  least  have 
a  right  to  ask  your  name." 

She  smiled  wistfully.     The  harshness  in  her  face 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE        103 

was  replaced  by  a  glow  of  tenderness.  "Yes,  you 
have  the  right.  I  am  called  'the  Little  Grandmother.' 
I  am  a  readjuster  of  destinies — the  champion  of  the 
down-trodden.  I  fight  for  those  for  whom  the  world 
has  ceased  to  care." 

"But  what  have  you  to  do  with  Santa  ?" 

"She  has  been  oppressed." 

"And  because  she  has  been  oppressed,  you  overlook 
any  crimes  she  may  have  committed?" 

"I  am  not  God,  that  I  should  judge.  If  people's 
hearts  are  empty,  I  reckon  them  my  children." 

"Let  me  ask  you  one  more  question.  Did  Santa 
tell  you  that  she  loved  me?" 

The  old  head  shook  sorrowfully.  "To  act  nobly 
it  is  not  necessary  to  be  loved  in  return.  Let  me  go. 
Do  not  try  to  follow  me." 

Standing  aside,  he  opened  the  door.  "And  we  meet 
again?" 

As  she  hobbled  out,  she  glanced  across  her 
shoulder.  In  her  gesture  there  was  the  ghostly 
grace  of  the  proud  coquette  who  was  vanishing  and 
forgotten.  "Will  you  want  to,"  she  whispered, 
"to-morrow  ?" 


II 


Now  that  she  was  gone  he  realized  that  under  the 
hypnotic  influence  of  her  presence  he  had  revealed 
far  more  than  he  had  intended.  He  should  never 
have  allowed  her  to  escape  him.  He  should  have  in- 


104  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

sisted  on  accompanying  her.  She  had  afforded  him 
his  only  clue  to  Santa's  whereabouts. 

At  all  costs  he  must  see  Santa.  His  peace  of  mind 
depended  on  it.  The  thought  of  her  would  haunt 
him.  He  would  never  rest  until  he  had  arrived  at  the 
truth.  Probably,  until  he  had  seen  her,  he  would 
never  be  free  from  the  mischief-making  intrusions  of 
anonymous  intriguers.  He  dodged  the  theory  of  her 
guilt,  preferring  to  persuade  himself  that  a  con 
spiracy  was  afoot,  the  object  of  which  might  be 
blackmail.  More  likely  it  was  a  clever  move  on  the 
part  of  financial  rivals  to  thwart  his  plans  by  dis 
crediting  him.  If  he  could  meet  Santa,  he  would  know 
for  certain  whether  she  was  a  decoy  or  a  fellow- 
victim.  Whatever  his  intellect  might  suspect,  his 
heart  resolutely  acquitted  her. 

It  was  too  late  to  overtake  the  Little  Grand 
mother,  but  he  was  determined  to  do  his  best  to 
trace  her.  In  the  passage  he  discovered  a  solitary 
individual  collecting  boots  and  shoes,  which  had  been 
placed  for  cleaning  outside  the  neighboring  doors. 

"An  old  lady  left  my  room  a  few  moments  ago. 
She  had  short  hair  and  a  white  handkerchief  tied  over 
her  head.  No  doubt  you  saw  her." 

The  man  rose  from  his  stooping  posture.  "An  old 
lady  with  short  hair!  You  say  she  had  a  handker 
chief  tied  over  it?  It  doesn't  sound  like  the  Ritz. 
No,  I  did  not  see  her." 

Of  the  man  at  the  elevator  he  made  the  same  in 
quiry,  only  to  be  informed  that  several  old  ladies 
had  been  carried  up  and  down. 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE        105 

Descending  to  the  foyer,  he  presented  himself  at 
the  desk. 

"Isn't  it  your  rule  to  have  all  callers  announced 
before  they're  shown  in  on  your  guests?" 

"Most  decidedly." 

"Then  how  did  it  happen  that  an  old  lady,  a 
rather  curious  old  lady,  with  short  hair  and  a  white 
handkerchief  over  her  head  like  a  shawl,  was  allowed 
to  find  her  way  into  my  room?" 

"If  you'll  give  me  the  particulars,  I'll  have  the  staff 
on  duty  questioned." 

As  he  turned  away,  he  threw  back  across  his  shoul 
der:  "I  shan't  be  going  to  bed  yet.  If  you  discover 
anything  you  might  report  it." 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  summoned  to  the  tele 
phone.  "About  your  visitor,  sir;  no  one  saw  her." 

Far  into  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  he  sat 
cogitating.  What  steps  ought  he  to  take  to  protect 
himself?  He  could  place  his  case  in  the  hands  of  the 
police,  but  if  he  did,  he  might  stir  up  a  hornet's 
nest.  Most  certainly  he  would  be  compelled  to  post 
pone  his  business  on  the  Continent  and  to  prolong  his 
stay  in  England.  But  more  disastrous  than  personal 
inconvenience,  in  going  to  the  police  he  might  be  the 
means  of  putting  Santa's  enemies  on  'her  track.  They 
would  expect  him  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  every 
thing;  he  would  find  difficulty  in  inventing  convinc 
ing  motives  to  explain  the  shiftiness  of  his  conduct 
since  landing. 

If  he  could  speak  to  Santa,  he  would  know  how 
to  act.  If  she  were  really  implicated  in  the  Rogo- 


106  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

vich  affair,  his  best  way  of  helping  her  would  be  to 
clear  out  of  England.  But  if  she  could  assure  him 
of  her  innocence,  he  was  prepared  to  stay  and  back 
her  to  the  limit  of  his  capacity.  Across  the  jet- 
black  sky  the  silver  moon  drifted  like  a  water-lily — 
a  parable  of  Santa,  moving  immaculately  among 
rumors  of  darkest  misdoings.  Whatever  she  had 
done  had  not  quenched  her  purity.  If  she  had  done 
the  worst  of  which  she  was  accused,  her  perverted 
mother-love  still  clothed  her  with  the  tatters  of  a 
tragic  goodness. 

He  jerked  himself  irritably  back  to  reality.  How 
could  a  woman  who  had  spread  death  with  her  beauty 
still  retain  her  purity  ?  He  had  been  warned  that  she 
trapped  men  by  appealing  not  to  their  baseness, 
but  to  their  chivalry.  What  wild-eyed  feat  of  chiv 
alry  was  this  that  he  was  performing?  It  was  best 
to  dispense  with  casuistry.  The  accumulated 
slanders  to  which  he  had  listened  had  spurred  his 
curiosity.  They  had  changed  a  modishly  attractive 
woman  into  a  romantic  figure — a  figure  which,  if 
it  were  not  noble,  at  least  possessed  the  virtue  of 
lonely  courage. 

He  would  allow  himself  four  days  in  England. 
If  he  had  not  heard  from  her  by  then,  he  would  go 
about  his  business.  Having  to  this  extent  set  a  limit 
to  his  difficulties,  he  took  himself  off  to  bed. 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE       107 


III 


His  first  anxiety  next  morning  was  to  scan  the 
papers.  He  had  all  the  London  dailies  brought  to 
him  and  read  them  before  he  dressed.  For  the  most 
part  they  told  him  nothing  new,  merely  recording, 
with  varying  degrees  of  sensationalism,  the  indisput 
able  fact  that  Prince  Rogovich  had  vanished.  One 
or  two  hinted  at  foul  play.  Several  suggested  acci 
dental  drowning.  The  bulk  of  them,  and  among 
these  were  the  most  reputable,  presumed  that  the 
Prince  had  had  private  reasons  for  avoiding  Eng 
land  and  landing  at  a  Continental  port  i/ncognito. 
Santa  Gorlof's  name  was  not  mentioned.  He  found 
nothing  to  confirm  the  warnings  of  last  night  or  to 
alarm  himself  on  her  account. 

It  was  later,  while  eating  breakfast  with  the  Times 
propped  up  before  him,  that  he  came  across  an  item 
which  set  him  viewing  what  had  happened  from  a  new 
angle.  He  was  skipping  through  a  sketch  of  the 
Prince's  career,  when  he  stumbled  on  the  following 
paragraph :  "It  will  be  remembered  how  last  summer 
the  Polish  women's  sense  of  injustice  concentrated  in 
a  silent  protest.  For  an  entire  week,  day  and  night, 
never  less  than  a  thousand  mothers,  each  carrying  a 
dead  child  in  her  breast,  camped  about  the  Rogo 
vich  Palace  in  Warsaw." 

Glancing  back,  he  read  more  carefully  the  informa 
tion  which  led  up  to  the  paragraph:  "During  the  two 
years  following  the  close  of  the  war,  Poland,  to- 


108  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

gether  with  most  of  Central  Europe,  has  suffered  in 
tensely  from  famine.  Children  have  contributed  by 
far  the  largest  proportion  to  the  toll  of  death.  For 
much  of  this,  so  far  as  Poland  is  concerned,  Prince 
Rogovich  has  been  held  accountable.  The  national 
wealth  which  he  has  squandered  on  equipping  armies 
might  have  been  spent  more  profitably  in  purchasing 
foodstuffs.  The  trip  to  America,  from  which  he  was 
returning  at  the  time  of  his  mysterious  disappear 
ance,  is  said  to  have  had  as  its  object  the  floating  of 
a  loan  which  would  enable  his  Generals  to  maintain 
their  offensives  for  at  least  another  twelve  months. 
While  the  land-owning  party  in  Poland,  supported 
by  French  diplomacy,  backed  him  up,  his  imperialis 
tic  policies  Avere  bitterly  condemned  by  Polish  moth 
ers  who  had  to  watch  their  children  perishing  from 
starvation  in  order  that  frontiers  might  be  extended. 
Already  the  death-rate  was  so  high  that  it  was  im 
possible  to  supply  sufficient  coffins.  At  mid-day  the 
main  streets  of  Warsaw  were  jammed  with  funerals. 
Many  of  these  funerals  consisted  of  only  two  persons : 
a  man  and  woman,  themselves  weak  from  want  of 
nourishment,  staggering  under  the  puny  load  of  a 
bundle  wrapped  in  paper,  containing  the  body  of 
the  latest  son  or  daughter  to  die  of  hunger."  Then 
followed  the  brief  description  of  how  the  thousand 
Polish  mothers  had  camped  for  a  week  in  protest 
about  the  Prince's  palace. 

Hindwood  looked  up  from  his  paper,  gazing  across 
the  flashing  gulf  of  sunlight  to  where  the  azure  sea 
of  distant  sky  beat  against  the  embattled  strand 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE       109 

of  housetops.  If  Santa  had  pushed  the  Prince  over 
board,  had  that  been  her  motive — that  Polish  chil 
dren  might  no  longer  die  of  hunger?  Perhaps  always, 
if  indeed  she  had  killed  men,  her  purpose  had  been 
to  act  as  the  scourge  of  the  enemies  of  children. 
The  memory  of  her  own  dead  child  had  urged  her. 
Mistakenly,  but  none  the  less  valiantly,  she  had  con 
stituted  herself  the  avenger  of  all  mothers  who  had 
been  despoiled  by  masculine  callousness. 

What  round-about  journeys  he  was  willing  to 
undertake  if  only  he  might  excuse  her !  Even  though 
he  were  compelled  to  admit  her  guilt,  he  was  deter 
mined  to  adjudge  her  magnanimous.  At  any  rate, 
she  had  not  been  apprehended. 

With  a  lighter  heart  than  he  had  experienced  for 
some  hours,  he  dismissed  her  from  his  thoughts  and 
set  out  to  fulfill  his  round  of  engagements. 

It  was  three  o'clock  when  he  returned.  Im 
mediately,  on  entering  his  room  he  noticed  that  a 
sheet  of  writing-paper  had  been  pinned  conspicuously 
to  the  pillow  of  his  bed.  Its  evident  purpose  was  to 
attract  his  attention.  On  approaching  it,  he  saw 
that  the  message  which  it  contained  was  printed  in 
large  letters  and  unsigned.  It  read : 

"//  you  wish  to  see  her,  follow  but  do  not  speak  to 
the  widow" 

It  didn't  make  sense.  What  widow?  The  "her" 
whom  he  could  see  by  following  the  widow  referred 
presumably  to  Santa.  But  who  had  pinned  the  sheet 
of  paper  to  his  pillow?  How  had  this  person  gained 
access  to  his  rooms?  That  morning,  when  he  went 


110  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

out,  he  had  locked  his  door  and  left  his  key  at  the 
hotel  desk.  He  had  in  his  possession  confidential 
papers  of  almost  state  importance.  If  their  secrets 
were  shared,  he  might  just  as  well  pack  up  and  re 
turn  to  America.  His  sense  that  he  was  the  storm- 
center  of  a  conspiracy  strengthened. 

Seizing  his  hat  and  gloves,  he  hurried  down-stairs. 
He  had  just  time  to  lodge  a  complaint  with  the 
management  before  keeping  his  next  appointment. 

He  had  alighted  from  the  elevator  and  was  about 
to  cross  the  foyer,  when  a  woman  rose  from  a  chair 
near  by  and  passed  immediately  in  front  of  him. 
He  jerked  himself  up  with  a  murmured  apology; 
then  noticed  that  she  was  gowned  in  the  heaviest 
widow's  mourning.  A  coincidence,  he  thought,  and 
yet  not  so  very  extraordinary !  He  was  proceeding 
on  his  journey,  when  his  eyes  chanced  to  follow  her. 
She  had  halted  uncertainly,  as  though  she  had  for 
gotten  something;  by  the  poise  of  her  head,  he 
guessed  that  behind  her  veil  she  was  gazing  at  him. 
More  to  satisfy  his  curiosity  than  as  the  preface  to 
an  adventure,  he  also  halted.  Somewhat  ostenta 
tiously  he  drew  from  his  pocket  the  sheet  of  note- 
paper  which  he  had  found  pinned  to  his  pillow.  Un 
folding  it,  he  reread  its  printed  message: 

"If  you  wish  to  see  her,  follow  but  do  not  speak  to 
the  widow." 

He  looked  up.  Slowly,  almost  imperceptibly,  the 
veiled  figure  nodded.  He  made  a  step,  as  if  to  ap 
proach  her.  Instantly  she  turned  and  passed  out. 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE        111 

Without  further  consideration,  in  his  eagerness  to  see 
what  she  would  do  next,  he  followed. 


IV 


He  had  expected  that  outside  the  hotel,  in  the 
throng  of  anonymous  traffic,  she  would  wait  for  him. 
Without  giving  any  further  sign  that  she  was  aware 
of  him,  she  moved  quietly  through  the  fashionable 
crowd  of  Piccadilly  and  turned  into  the  sunlit  leisure 
of  St.  James  Street.  The  unconscious  gaiety  of 
her  way  of  walking  was  strangely  out  of  keeping 
with  her  garments  of  bereavement.  Hindwood's 
curiosity  was  piqued.  In  a  shamefaced  way  he  was 
overwhelmingly  interested.  He  felt  himself  capable 
of  a  great  romance.  For  the  moment  he  was  almost 
grateful  for  the  annoyances  that  had  presented  him 
with  so  thrilling  an  opportunity. 

What  was  he  meant  to  do?  The  message  had  for 
bidden  him  to  accost  her.  He  had  been  ordered 
merely  to  follow.  How  long  and  whither?  At  the 
Foreign  Office  a  high  official  was  waiting  for  him, 
expecting  every  minute  to  hear  him  announced.  To 
wander  through  London  after  an  unknown  woman 
was  the  trick  of  a  gallant  or  a  moonstruck  boy.  He 
was  neither.  He  was  a  man  of  discretion,  who  aimed 
at  becoming  the  advisor  of  statesmen  and  yet  his 
conduct  was  open  to  every  misinterpretation.  He 
began  to  feel  himself  a  scoundrel.  For  a  man  whose 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 

emotions  had  always  been  shepherded,  the  sensation 
was  exciting  and  not  wholly  unpleasant. 

If  he  could  only  learn  something  about  her! 
Crossing  to  the  opposite  pavement,  he  hurried  his 
pace  till  he  was  abreast  of  her. 

She  was  young.  Her  figure  was  slight  and  up 
right.  She  was  about  the  same  build  as  Santa,  but 
seemed  taller.  If  she  were  indeed  Santa,  this  impres 
sion  of  added  height  might  be  due  to  the  somber- 
ness  of  her  attire.  She  was  so  carefully  veiled  that 
even  her  hair  was  hidden ;  there  was  no  feature  by 
which  he  could  identify  her.  He  tried  another  ex 
periment.  Recrossing  the  street  to  a  point  some  dis 
tance  ahead,  he  loitered  before  a  shop,  making  a 
self-conscious  pretense  of  studying  its  wares.  He 
heard  the  rustle  of  her  crepe  as  she  drew  near  him. 
She  went  by  him  so  closely  that  she  almost  touched 
him.  He  was  conscious  of  the  faint  fragrance  of  her 
perfume.  In  the  window  he  caught  the  dim  reflection 
of  her  figure.  At  the  moment  that  she  was  im 
mediately  behind  him,  she  moved  her  head  in  a  back 
ward  gesture,  seeming  to  indicate  that  he  should 
follow.  When  he  turned  to  obey,  she  was  drifting 
through  the  September  sunshine,  completely  self- 
absorbed  and  unnoticing. 

Traveling  the  yard  of  St.  James  Palace,  she  en 
tered  the  Mall.  There  she  hesitated,  giving  him  time 
to  catch  up  with  her.  A  taxi  was  crawling  by.  She 
hailed  it.  Addressing  the  driver,  but  glancing  di 
rectly  at  himself,  she  said  in  a  sweet,  distinct  voice: 

"Victoria  Station.     The  Brighton  platform." 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE       113 


Was  she  Santa?  The  voice  had  sounded  different, 
yet,  had  his  life  depended  on  it,  he  could  not  have 
decided.  There  was  only  one  way  of  finding  out — 
by  joining  her  on  the  Brighton  platform.  This  would 
mean  missing  his  appointment  at  the  Foreign  Office. 
He  was  prepared  to  make  the  sacrifice,  but  he  had 
no  guarantee  that  the  chase  would  end  there.  It  was 
possible  that  she  would  still  refuse  to  satisfy  his 
curiosity  and  compel  him  to  accompany  her  further. 
His  role  was  that  of  the  incautious  fly.  But  who 
was  the  master-spinner  of  this  web  in  which  it  was  in 
tended  that  he  should  become  entangled  ?  Was  it  the 
Little  Grandmother?  He  had  asked  her  whether 
they  would  meet  again.  In  the  light  of  present  hap 
penings,  her  answer  took  on  a  sinister  meaning,  "Will 
you  want  to  to-morrow?" 

As  he  stood  there  in  the  sunshine  of  the  Mall,  with 
the  thud  of  fashionable  equipages  flashing  by,  a 
sullen  conviction  grew  up  within  him  that  he  was 
becoming  afraid.  An  empty  taxi  hove  in  sight.  He 
beckoned.  Before  it  had  halted,  he  was  standing 
on  the  running-board. 

"To  Victoria  Station.    The  Brighton  platform." 

The  driver  took  his  brevity  for  a  sign  that  a  train 
was  to  be  caught  by  the  narrowest  of  margins.  He 
made  such  speed  that  they  drew  up  against  the  curb 
just  as  the  widow's  vehicle  was  departing.  She  threw 
him  a  furtive  glance  from  behind  her  veil,  then  turned 


114  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

and  moved  away  as  though  he  were  the  completest 
stranger.  Imitating  her  discretion,  he  followed  at  a 
distance. 

Halting  before  the  ticket-office,  she  produced  her 
purse.  He  edged  nearer;  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  learn  her  destination. 

"A  first-class  single  to  Seafold,"  he  heard  her  say. 

When  his  turn  came,  he  repeated  her  words, 
adding:  "How  long  before  it  starts?" 

"Five  minutes,"  the  clerk  told  him. 

As  he  gathered  up  his  change,  he  was  surprised  to 
observe  how  little  was  left  out  of  his  pound.  He  had 
supposed  Seafold  would  prove  to  be  a  suburb.  By 
the  cost  of  his  ticket  he  estimated  that  it  must  be  a 
journey  of  at  least  sixty  miles.  Was  it  worth  the 
taking?  Could  he  return  that  same  evening?  He 
might  get  stranded.  If  that  happened,  he  was  unpre 
pared  to  spend  the  night.  These  considerations  were 
swept  aside  when  he  noticed  that  the  widow  had  once 
more  vanished. 

Accosting  a  porter,  "The  Seafold  platform?" 
he  asked  breathlessly. 

"Same  as  the  one  for  Brighton." 

"That  tells  me  nothing.  There's  no  luggage. 
Show  me." 

Before  he  had  passed  the  barrier,  he  was  aware 
that  the  train  was  crowded.  In  third-class  compart 
ments  passengers  were  standing.  To  discover  any 
one  under  these  circumstances  would  be  a  labor  of 
patience.  Carriage-doors  were  being  banged  and 
locked.  Even  at  this  final  moment  his  habitual  cau- 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE        115 

tion  reasserted  itself.  What  else  but  folly  could 
result  from  an  adventure  so  recklessly  undertaken? 

The  porter  caught  him  by  the  arm.  "  'Ere  you 
are,  mister.  'Op  in.  You're  lucky." 

No  sooner  had  he  squeezed  himself  into  the  re 
maining  seat  than,  with  a  groaning  jerk,  the  train 
started. 


VI 


Lucky!  The  luckiest  thing  that  could  have  hap 
pened  to  him  would  have  been  to  be  left  behind. 
Here  he  was,  following  a  woman  whose  face  he  had 
not  seen,  to  a  place  which,  up  to  a  few  moments 
ago,  he  had  not  known  existed.  Even  to  believe  that 
he  was  following  her  required  optimism;  he  had  no 
proof  that  she  was  on  the  train.  Probably  it  had 
been  part  of  her  strategy  to  send  him  scurrying  on 
this  fool's  errand,  in  order  that  her  accomplices 
might  be  undisturbed  while  they  ransacked  his  rooms 
in  his  absence. 

"I'll  make  an  end  of  this  nonsense,"  he  told  him 
self,  "by  alighting  at  the  next  stopping-place." 

But  Where  was  the  next  stopping-place?  He 
glanced  along  the  double  row  of  his  fellow-passengers, 
barricaded  behind  their  papers.  He  wanted  to  ask 
his  question  and  watched  for  an  opportunity.  At 
last,  losing  patience,  he  nudged  the  man  beside  him. 

"Excuse  me,  sir;  Fm  a  stranger.  I've  made  a 
mistake.  My  ticket's  to  Seafold,  wherever  that  may 
be,  and  I—" 


116  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

With  his  nose  still  glued  to  the  page,  the  man  mut 
tered  :  "That's  all  right.  You  don't  need  to  worry. 
It's  where  you're  going." 

"But  it  isn't  all  right,"  Hindwood  contradicted 
with  a  shade  of  annoyance.  "I  don;t  want  to  go  to 
Seafold ;  I  want  to  return  to  London.  What  I'm  try 
ing  to  ask  you  is  where  can  I  get  out?" 

"Lewes,  if  you  think  it's  worth  while." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  think  it's  worth  while?" 

The  paper  rustled  testily  and  was  raised  a  few 
inches  higher.  "Because  Lewes  is  almost  at  Seafold. 
It's  the  junction  where  you  change — the  one  and  only 
stop  between  here  and  Brighton." 

Turning  away  disgustedly,  he  watched  the  swiftly 
changing  landscape.  Everything  that  met  his  eyes 
was  beautiful,  with  a  domestic,  thought-out,  under 
lying  tenderness.  It  had  all  been  planned,  that  was 
what  he  felt,  by  the  loving  labor  of  countless  gener 
ations.  In  a  homeless  man  like  himself  the  sight 
created  a  realization  of  forlornness.  He  had  traveled 
five  continents  and  had  planted  his  affections  no 
where.  It  was  the  same  with  his  human  relations. 
He  could  reckon  his  acquaintances  by  the  thousand, 
yet  there  was  no  one  to  whom  he  was  indispensably 
dear.  By  a  mental  transition,  the  implication  of 
which  he  scarcely  appreciated,  he  began  to  think  of 
Santa. 

They  were  slowing  down.  He  was  surprised  to 
discover  that  an  hour  had  gone  by.  The  man  at  his 
side  folded  up  his  paper.  Now  that  they  were  about 
to  part,  he  considered  it  safe  to  be  friendly. 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE        117 

"We're  coming  into  Lewes,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
"The  Seafold  train  will  be  waiting  just  across  the 
platform.  You  can't  miss  it." 

Hindwood  thanked  him  brusquely. 

What  to  do  next  ?  If  he  were  fortunate  in  catch 
ing  an  express,  he  could  be  in  London  in  time  to  dine. 
As  he  stepped  out,  he  saw  the  Seafold  local  waiting. 
What  good  would  it  do  him  to  go  to  Seafold?  Yet 
to  quit  now  would  be  humiliatingly  unadventurous. 
He  was  moving  slowly  towards  the  stair,  when  he 
was  arrested  by  a  voice. 

"If  you  wouldn't  mind?  It  was  stupid  of  me  to 
drop  it." 

He  turned  sharply.  She  was  leaning  out  of  a 
carriage  window  which  he  was  in  the  act  of  passing. 

Without  giving  him  time  to  question,  she  ex 
plained:  "My  ticket — it  slipped  from  my  hand. 
There  it  is  behind  you." 

The  moment  he  had  stooped  and  returned  it,  she 
withdrew  herself.  It  had  happened  so  quickly  that 
he  had  no  chance  to  guess  at  the  features  behind  the 
heavy  veil.  With  a  promptitude  of  decision  which 
almost  deceived  himself,  as  though  he  had  never  har 
bored  any  other  intention,  he  opened  the  door  and 
clambered  into  the  carriage  next  to  hers. 

"That's  that,"  he  thought,  smiling  tolerantly  at 
his  relieved  sense  of  satisfaction.  And  then,  "It  was 
no  accident.  She  saw  that  I  was  giving  up  the 
chase.  She  did  it  to  keep  me  going.  What's  her 
game?" 

Whatever  her  game  was,  he  was  well  on  the  road  to 


118  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

enlightenment.  The  engine  was  puffing  through  a 
valley,  across  salt-marshes  intersected  by  dykes  and 
sluggish  streams,  where  derelict  boats  lay  sunken 
in  the  mud,  rotting  among  the  wild-flowers.  Grazing 
sheep  made  the  quiet  plaintive  with  their  cries. 
Gulls,  disturbed  by  the  train's  impetuous  onrush, 
rose  and  drifted  lazily  into  the  peace  that  slum 
bered  further  inland.  Of  a  sudden,  with  a  gesture 
of  exaltation,  the  gleaming  chalk-cliffs  of  the  coast 
leaped  into  sight  and  beyond  them  the  dull  flash  of 
the  Channel. 

He  was  clamorous  with  excitement.  Curiosity  beat 
masterfully  on  the  door  of  the  future.  He  had 
to  find  out.  Why  had  he  been  brought  here  ?  What 
had  Santa  to  do  with  it?  Who  was  the  woman  in  the 
next  compartment? 

They  had  halted  several  times.  Each  time  he  had 
watched  carefully  to  see  whether  she  was  eluding  him. 
Again  their  speed  was  slackening.  They  were  enter 
ing  a  little,  sandy  town,  dotted  with  red-brick  villas, 
bleached  by  the  wind  and  sun.  He  caught  glimpses 
between  the  houses  of  a  battered  esplanade,  of  con 
crete  breakwaters  partly  destroyed,  of  a  pebbly 
beach  alternately  sucked  down  and  quarrelsomely 
hurled  back  by  the  waves.  Over  all  hung  the  haunt 
ing  fragrance  of  salt,  and  gorse,  and  wild  thyme. 

They  had  come  to  a  standstill.  Passengers  were 
climbing  out  and  greeting  friends.  A  porter  flung 
wide  the  door  of  his  carriage,  shouting,  "Seafold! 
Seafold!" 

Having  watched  her  alight,  he  followed.     She  was 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE        119 

a  few  paces  ahead,  picking  her  way  daintily  through 
the  crowd.  Again  she  was  all  discretion  and  gave  no 
hint  that  she  had  noticed  him.  Outside  the  gate,  cab 
men  offered  themselves  for  hire.  She  shook  her  head 
denyingly  and  passed  on  with  her  tripping  step. 
Not  until  the  station  had  been  left  behind  did  he 
remember  that  he  ought  to  have  inquired  at  what 
times  the  trains  departed  for  London.  Too  late! 
His  immediate  business  was  keeping  her  in  sight. 

With  the  unhesitating  tread  of  one  familiar  with 
her  surroundings,  she  chose  what  seemed  to  be  the 
most  important  street.  It  was  narrow  and  flanked 
by  little,  stooping  cottages,  most  of  which  had  been 
converted  into  shops  which  cater  to  the  needs  of 
tourists.  It  was  the  end  of  the  season.  A  few  re 
maining  visitors  were  sauntering  aimlessly  up  and 
down.  Natives,  standing  in  groups,  had  the  appear 
ance  of  being  fishermen.  Some  of  them  nodded  to 
her  respectfully;  without  halting,  she  passed  them 
with  a  pleasant  word.  At  the  bottom  of  the  street 
she  turned  into  a  road,  paralleling  the  sea-front, 
which  led  through  a  waste  of  turf  and  sand  into  the 
wind-swept  uplands  of  the  open  country.  Just 
where  the  country  met  the  town  there  stood  a  lath- 
and-plaster  house,  isolated,  facing  seaward,  creeper- 
covered,  surrounded  by  high  hedges.  It  was  more 
pretentious  than  any  he  had  seen  as  yet.  Giving  no 
sign  that  she  was  aware  she  was  followed,  she  pushed 
open  the  rustic  gate,  passed  up  the  red-tiled  path, 
produced  a  latch-key,  and  admitted  herself.  There, 
in  the  bare  stretch  of  road,  having  lured  him  all  the 


120  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

way  from  London,  without  a  single  backward  glance 
or  any  sign  that  would  betray  her  recognition  of  his 
presence,  she  left  him. 


VII 


"Just  what  I  might  have  expected,"  he  said  aloud. 

"Did  you  speak  ter  me,  mister?" 

He  swung  round  to  find  a  freckled,  bare-legged 
urchin  gazing  up  at  him. 

"I  didn't.     Who  are  you?" 

"A  caddy  from  them  links  over  there."  He 
pointed  a  grubby  finger  along  the  road  to  where,  half 
a  mile  away,  the  level  of  the  seashore  swept  up  into 
a  bold,  green  headland. 

"Then  I  guess  you're  the  sort  of  boy  I'm  looking 
for.  Who  lives  in  this  house?" 

"A  Madam  Something  or  other.  'Er  name  sounds 
Russian." 

"What  does  she  look  like?" 

"Dunno.  She's  a  widder  and  covers  'erself  up. 
Not  but  what  she  'as  gentlemen  friends  as  visits  *er." 

"You  seem  a  sharp  boy.  Can  you  tell  me  how 
long  she's  lived  here?" 

"Maybe  a  year;  off  and  on  that's  ter  say.  I  don't 
recolleck." 

"Is  she  by  herself?" 

"There's  an  old  woman  in  the  garden  sometimes 
as  looks  a  'undred.  She  wears  a  white  hanky  tied 
round  'er  'ead." 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE       121 

"I  think  that's  all  I  want  to  ask  you.  Here's  some 
thing  for  you.  Oh  yes,  do  you  happen  to  know  about 
the  trains  to  London?" 

"The  last  one's  gorn,  mister,  if  that's  what  yer 
means.  It's  the  one  that  our  gents  at  the  golf-links 
aims  ter  catch." 

"Then  I'm  out  of  luck.  Good  evening,  sonny,  and 
thank  you  for  your  information." 

The  bare  legs  showed  no  signs  of  departing;  the 
freckled  face  still  gazed  up. 

"What's  interesting  you.  My  way  of  speaking? 
I'm  American." 

The  boy  shook  his  head.  "We  *ad  Canadian  soldiers 
'ere  during  the  war ;  they're  pretty  near  Americans." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"It's  that  you're  the  second  gent  to-day  to  slip 
me  a  shilling  for  telling  'im  about  this  'ouse.  And 
it's  something  else."  He  sank  his  voice  to  a  whisper. 
"Don't  look  round.  There's  been  some  one  a-peeking 
from  be'ind  a  bedroom  winder  most  of  the  time  as 
we've  been  talkin'.  I'd  best  be  goin'.  Good  evenin', 
mister." 

Not  to  attract  attention  by  loitering,  Hindwood 
set  off  at  a  businesslike  pace  down  the  road  toward 
the  headland.  As  he  drew  further  away  from  the 
house,  he  walked  more  slowly ;  he  was  trying  to  sort 
out  his  facts.  The  woman  who  lived  there  had  a 
Russian  name.  Santa  Gorlof !  She  dressed  like  a 
widow.  That  would  be  to  disguise  herself.  The  news 
about  the  gentlemen  friends  who  visited  her  was  quite 
in  keeping  with  the  character  which  the  Major  had 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 

bestowed  on  her,  but  not  at  all  welcome.  She  had 
lived  there  for  a  year,  off  and  on.  Her  companion 
was  an  old  woman,  nearly  a  hundred — the  Little 
Grandmother !  But  who  was  this  man  who  earlier  in 
the  day  had  bribed  the  boy  that  he  might  obtain 
precisely  the  same  information?  He  reminded  him 
self  that  the  police  were  hunting  for  her.  The  man 
might  be  a  detective.  If  justice  had  already  run  her 
to  earth,  Seaf  old  was  the  last  place  in  which  he  ought 
to  be  found.  If  the  boy  had  been  accurate  about  the 
trains,  there  was  no  escape  till  the  morning.  Even 
though  he  were  to  hire  an  automobile,  he  would  be 
placing  his  visit  to  Seaf  old  on  record.  Self-preserva 
tion  rose  up  rampant.  What  a  fool  he'd  been  to  in 
volve  himself  in  so  perilous  an  affair ! 

And  yet,  once  more  and  for  the  last  time,  he 
longed  to  see  Santa's  face.  Why  was  it?  Was  it  be 
cause  her  hearsay  wickedness  fascinated  him?  It 
was  not  because  he  loved  her.  It  was  not  to  gratify 
morbid  curiosity — at  least  not  entirely.  Perhaps  it 
was  because  he  pitied  her  and,  against  his  will,  dis 
covered  a  certain  grandeur  in  her  defiance.  She  had 
played  a  lone  hand.  Like  a  beast  of  prey  in  the 
jungle,  she  was  surrounded;  at  this  moment  she  must 
be  listening  for  the  stealthy  tread  of  those  who  were 
encompassing  her  destruction,  yet  she  had  not  lost 
her  cunning.  She  was  fighting  to  the  end.  Probably 
this  time,  as  when  the  firing-squad  waited  for  her  in 
the  woods  of  Vincennes,  she  was  planning  to  employ 
a  man  as  her  substitute — himself.  The  fact  re 
mained  that  in  her  desperate  need,  she  had  appealed 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE        123 

to  him  for  help.  There  was  the  barest  chance  that 
she  was  innocent — a  victim  of  false-appearing  cir 
cumstances.  He  wanted  to  judge  her  for  himself  by 
tearing  aside  the  widow's  veil  and  gazing  on  her  de 
stroying  beauty. 

Turning  off  the  road,  he  struck  across  the  links, 
climbing  toward  the  towering  headland.  The  wind, 
coming  in  gusts,  rustled  the  parched  gorse  and  brittle 
fronds  of  bracken.  Behind  his  back  the  sun  was  set 
ting,  flinging  a  level  bar  of  gold  across  the  leaden 
sea.  In  sudden  lulls,  when  the  wind  ceased  blowing, 
the  air  pulsated  with  the  rhythmic  cannonading  of 
waves  assaulting  the  wall  of  cliffs.  When  he  listened 
intently,  he  could  hear  the  ha-ha  of  their  cheering 
and  their  sullen  moan  as  they  were  beaten  back. 
It  was  strange  to  think  that  two  weeks  ago  he  had 
been  in  New  York,  intent  on  nothing  but  acquiring  a 
fortune.  Women  had  not  troubled  him.  Why  should 
he  now  permit  this  woman,  chance-met  on  ship-board, 
to  divert  him — a  woman  who  could  never  be  closer  to 
him? 

He  had  reached  the  summit  of  the  promontory. 
Etched  against  the  sky-line,  his  figure  must  be  visible 
for  miles.  The  sun  sank  lower  and  vanished. 
Gazing  through  the  clear  atmosphere,  far  below  him 
he  could  discern  every  detail  of  the  house  to  which  he 
had  been  tempted.  It  looked  a  fitting  nest  for  an 
old  poet.  It  held  no  hint  of  terror.  At  the  same  time 
it  was  strategically  well  situated  for  occupants  who 
wished  to  keep  an  eye  on  all  approaches. 

He  had  been  watching  for  any  sign  of  movement, 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 

when  a  curious  thing  happened.  Though  no  figure 
appeared,  from  one  of  the  upper  windows  a  white 
cloth  fluttered.  He  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 
The  signal  was  repeated.  He  tapped  his  breast  and 
pointed,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Shall  I  come?"  The 
cloth  was  shaken  vigorously.  On  repeating  the  ex 
periment,  he  obtained  the  same  result.  When  he 
nodded  his  head  in  assent,  the  fluttering  ended. 

So  every  step  of  his  progress  had  been  observed 
by  some  one  spying  through  a  telescope  from  be 
hind  the  curtained  windows !  The  first  moment  he 
had  afforded  an  opportunity  by  looking  back,  the 
signaling  had  commenced.  That  so  much  secrecy 
should  be  employed  seemed  to  betoken  that  Santa's 
case  was  desperate.  That  she  should  have  run  the 
risk  of  tempting  him  down  from  London  must  mean 
that  he  possessed  some  peculiar  facility  for  rendering 
her  a  much  needed  service. 

The  imminence  of  the  danger,  both  to  her  and  to 
himself,  was  emphasized  by  this  latest  precaution. 
She  had  not  dared  to  admit  him  to  the  house  or  even 
to  acknowledge  his  presence,  until  she  had  made  cer 
tain  that  he,  in  his  turn,  was  not  followed. 

This  thought,  that  he  might  be  followed,  filled  him 
with  an  entirely  new  sensation;  it  peopled  every 
clump  of  gorse  and  bed  of  bracken  with  possible  un 
seen  enemies.  The  rustling  of  the  wind,  the  cry  of  a 
sea-bird,  made  him  turn  alertly,  scanning  with  sus 
picion  every  hollow  and  mound  of  the  wild,  deserted 
landscape.  It  seemed  unwise  to  allow  his  actions  to 
announce  his  intentions  too  plainly.  What  his  in- 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE        125 

tentions  were  he  was  not  very  certain.  His  imme 
diate  inclination  was  to  shake  himself  free  from  the 
whole  mysterious  complication. 

Continuing  his  ramble,  he  assumed  a  careless  gait, 
descending  the  further  side  of  the  promontory  and 
bearing  always  slightly  inland,  so  that  his  course 
might  lead  back  eventually  to  the  road  from  which 
he  had  departed.  As  dusk  was  gathering,  he  found 
himself  entering  an  abandoned  military  camp.  The 
bare  hutments,  with  their  dusty  windows  and  pad 
locked  doors,  stretched  away  in  seeming  endless  ave 
nues  of  ghostly  silence.  The  Maple  Leaf,  painted 
on  walls  and  sign-boards,  explained  the  village  boy's 
reference  to  Canadian  soldiers.  He  had  reached  the 
heart  of  it,  when  he  was  possessed  by  the  overpower 
ing  sensation  that  human  eyes  were  gazing  at  him. 
Pulling  himself  up,  he  glanced  back  across  his  shoul 
der,  crooking  his  arm  to  ward  off  a  blow.  Realizing 
what  he  was  doing,  he  relaxed  and  stared  deliberately 
about  him.  Nothing !  No  sign  of  life !  Yet  the 
certainty  remained  that  human  eyes  were  watching. 

"Nerves !"  he  muttered  contemptuously. 

It  was  dark  when,  leaving  the  camp,  he  struck 
the  road.  Stars  were  coming  out.  Far  away  along 
the  coast  the  distant  lights  of  a  harbor  blinked  and 
twinkled.  He  hurried  his  steps.  His  mind  was  made 
up.  He  would  get  something  to  eat  in  Seafold, 
discover  a  garage,  hire  a  car  and  be  back  in  London 
by  midnight.  To  confirm  his  will  in  this  decision,  he 
began  making  plans  for  the  morrow. 

To  enter  the  town  he  had  to  pass  the  house.     As 


126  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

its  bulk  gathered  shape,  his  feet  moved  more  slowly. 
Long  before  he  came  opposite  it,  he  had  caught  the 
fragrance  of  the  myrtle  in  its  hedges.  The  windows 
which  looked  his  way  were  shrouded.  He  paused  for 
a  moment  outside  the  rustic  gate.  He  was  saying 
good-by  to  adventure.  He  was  too  old.  His  season 
for  pardonable  folly  was  ended.  The  prose  of  life 
had  claimed  him. 

Prolonging  the  pretense  of  temptation,  he  pushed 
open  the  gate.  A  hand  touched  his — a  woman's. 
The  desire  to  play  safe  faded.  Weakly  capitulating, 
he  allowed  himself  to  be  led  up  the  path  and  across 
the  shadowy  threshold.  The  door  of  the  darkened 
house  closed  behind  him.  She  was  slipping  the  bolts 
into  place. 

VIII 

He  listened.  He  could  not  see  her  face — only  the 
blurred  outline  of  her  figure.  Except  for  the  sound 
of  her  movements,  the  silence  was  unbroken.  At  the 
end  of  a  passage,  leading  from  the  hall,  a  streak  of 
gold  escaped  along  the  carpet. 

"Santa!" 

No  answer. 

"Santa,  why  have  you  brought  me?" 

Gliding  past  him  down  the  passage,  she  darted  into 
the  lighted  room,  leaving  the  door  ajar  behind  her. 
He  followed  gropingly.  As  he  entered,  he  was  mo 
mentarily  confused  by  the  sudden  change  from  dark 
ness. 


She  was  addressing  him  in  a  small,  strained  voice. 
"There's  no  need  to  be  afraid." 

He  looked  about  him,  searching  for  the  inspirer  of 
fear.  There  was  no  one  save  themselves.  Then  he 
noticed  how  she  trembled.  She  was  making  a  brave 
effort  to  appear  collected,  but  it  was  plain  that  she 
was  wild  with  terror.  Her  eyes  were  wide  and  dilated. 
She  stood  on  the  defensive,  backed  against  the  fire 
place,  as  though  she  were  expecting  violence.  Her 
right  hand  was  in  advance  of  her  body.  It  held  some 
thing  which  caught  the  glow  of  the  flames — a  nickel- 
plated  revolver,  cocked  and  ready  for  immediate  ac 
tion.  His  reception  was  so  different  from  anything 
he  had  anticipated  that  he  stared  with  an  amused  ex 
pression  of  inquiry. 

At  last  he  asked,  "You  knew  from  the  start  that  I 
thought  you  were  Santa?" 

Biting  her  lip  to  prevent  herself  from  crying,  she 
nodded.  Far  from  being  Santa,  she  was  fair  as  any 
Dane,  with  China-blue  eyes  and  the  complexion  of  a 
wild  rose.  He  noted  the  little  wisps  of  curls  which 
made  a  haze  of  gold  about  her  forehead.  She  wrore 
turquoise  earrings.  They  were  her  only  adorn 
ment.  She  herself  was  a  decoration.  She  was  like 
a  statue  of  the  finest  porcelain,  so  flawless  that  she 
seemed  unreal.  Had  it  not  been  for  her  widow's 
mourning,  he  would  have  said  that  she  was  untouched 
by  passionate  experience.  She  had  an  appearance 
of  provoking  innocence,  which  made  the  paleness  of 
her  beauty  ardent  as  a  flame. 

Speaking  quietly,  "I'm  not  easily  frightened,"  he 


128  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

said ;  "and  you,  while  you  keep  me  covered  with  that 
revolver,  have  no  reason  to  be  afraid.  Any  moment 
you  choose  you  can  kill  me — you've  only  to  press 
the  trigger." 

Tears  of  horror  sprang  into  her  eyes.  "But  I 
don't  want  to  kill  you." 

"Then  why  don't  you  lay  it  aside?" 
"Because — "       She    gazed    at    him    appealingly. 
"Because  I'm  alone.     I  may  need  it  to  protect  my 
self." 

"From  me?  No.  I  should  think  you  can  see  that." 
Was  the  house  really  empty?  He  listened.  It  was 
possible  that  some  one  might  steal  up  from  behind. 
He  did  not  dare  to  turn.  His  only  chance  of  pre 
venting  her  from  shooting  him  was  to  keep  her 
engaged  in  conversation. 

"If  you  feel  this  way,  why  did  you  go  to  such 
elaborate  pains  to  force  me  to  visit  you  to-night? 
You  must  have  known  that  I  didn't  want  to  come.  It 
isn't  I  who  have  intruded."  He  smiled  cheerfully. 
"At  the  risk  of  appearing  rude,  I'll  be  frank  with  you. 
When  you  crossed  my  path  at  the  Ritz,  I  was  on 
the  point  of  keeping  a  most  important  engagement. 
When  I  followed  you  out  of  the  hotel,  it  was  because 
of  a  message  I'd  found  pinned  to  my  pillow,  'Follow 
the  widow.*  So  it  wasn't  you  in  particular  that  I 
was  following;  I'd  have  followed  any  widow.  I  ex 
pected  that  you'd  speak  to  me  as  soon  as  we  were 
in  the  street.  I'd  no  intention  of  giving  up  my  ap 
pointment.  You  didn't ;  you  led  me  on,  further  and 
further,  a  step  at  a  time.  I  don't  mind  telling  you 


Tears  of  horror  sprang  into  her  China-blue  eyes. 
"But  I  don't  want  to  kill  you." 
"Then  why  not  throw  the  thing  away?     You're 
far  more  scared  than  I  am." 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE       129 

that  when  I  found  myself  in  the  train,  I  was  ex 
tremely  annoyed.  By  the  time  I'd  arrived  at  Lewes, 
I'd  fully  made  up  my  mind  to  abandon  the  chase. 
Then  you  spoke  to  me.  I'd  wasted  so  much  of  my  af 
ternoon  that  I  didn't  like  being  beaten.  You'd  roused 
my  curiosity.  Here  in  Seafold,  you  dodged  me  and 
left  me  standing  in  the  road  like  a  dummy.  That 
used  up  the  fag-end  of  my  patience ;  I  was  mad  clean 
through.  I  didn't  care  if  I  never  saw  you  again. 
When  you  signaled  me  on  the  headland,  I  signaled 
back  that  I  was  coming.  I  wasn't.  I  was  tired  of 
being  led  on  and  eluded.  When  you  caught  me  at 
the  gate,  I  was  flirting  with  temptation,  but  I'd 
already  laid  my  plans  to  be  back  in  London  by  mid 
night.  So  you  see  you  can  scarcely  blame  me  for 
being  here.  The  shoe's  on  the  other  foot  entirely. 
You've  put  me  to  great  inconvenience  merely  to  tell 
me,  it  would  seem,  that  you  don't  want  to  shoot  me." 

"I  don't." 

"Then  why  not  throw  the  thing  away?  You're 
far  more  scared  of  it  than  I  am." 

"Because  I  may  have  to  use  it." 

"On  whom?" 

"You." 

"Why?" 

A  sweet,  slow  smile  turned  up  the  edges  of  her 
mouth.  "My  orders  were  to  keep  you  here,  if  once 
I'd  managed  to  persuade  you  inside." 

He  laughed  outright.  "You  hate  having  me  here, 
and  you'd  hate  to  see  me  go.  Isn't  that  the  way  the 
land  lies?  I'm  more  or  less  in  the  same  fix:  I  didn't 


130  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

want  to  come,  and  I  don't  want  to  stay.  The  fact 
remains  that  we're  both  here.  Why  not  make  the 
best  of  it?  If  you'll  stop  brandishing  that  weapon, 
I'll  feel  much  more  comfortable.  I'm  not  trying  to 
escape." 

"You  might." 

For  the  first  time  he  dared  to  shift  his  position. 
"Don't  be  alarmed,"  he  warned  her.  "That's  easier. 
I  was  stiff.  Now,  if  you'll  listen,  I've  a  proposal  to 
make.  You're  treating  me  like  a  burglar,  which  isn't 
fair.  You  may  know,  but  I've  not  the  least  idea 
how  long  you  intend  to  hold  me  prisoner.  I  guess 
you're  waiting  for  some  one  else  to  arrive,  but  that's 
neither  here  nor  there.  Before  the  third  person 
comes,  you  may  have  shot  me — of  course,  by  accident. 
Revolvers  go  off  if  you  keep  them  too  long  pointed. 
You  know  nothing  about  firearms,  and  I'm  beginning 
to  be  rather  fond  of  life.  Here's  what  I  propose: 
if  you'll  put  it  away,  I'll  give  you  my  parole  not  to 
come  within  two  yards  of  you  or  to  attempt  to  escape. 
If  I  want  my  parole  back,  you  shall  have  a  full  five 
minutes'  notice." 

"If  I  thought  that  I  could  trust  you—" 

"You  can.    Is  it  a  bargain?" 

Without  answering,  placing  her  weapon  on  the 
mantelpiece,  she  turned  her  back  on  him.  She  seemed 
waiting  to  hear  him  advance  further  into  the  room. 
He  did  not  stir. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Hindwood?" 

"It's  that  I've  just  remembered  one  thing  for 
which  our  armistice  has  not  provided.  You'd  better 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE        131 

pick  up  your  gun  again.  It's  that  I  haven't  dined. 
I  wonder  whether  you'd  let  me  into  the  village — 

He  left  his  sentence  unended.  He  suddenly  per 
ceived  that  she  was  shaken  with  sobbing.  In  his 
concern,  he  forgot  his  compact  as  to  distance  and 
hurried  over  to  her  side.  She  swung  round,  her  face 
blinded  with  tears.  As  she  stumbled  past  him,  she 
muttered : 

"You've  beaten  me.  You're  not  afraid.  I  couldn't 
shoot  you  now  if  I  wanted." 


IX 


Tiptoeing  to  the  threshold,  he  turned  the  handle 
and  peeped  into  the  passage.  As  before,  everything 
was  in  darkness. 

He  was  free  to  go.  There  was  nothing  to  stop  him 
— nothing  except  his  honor.  It  was  easy  to  argue 
that  even  his  honor  did  not  prevent  him.  He  had 
canceled  his  parole  when  he  had  reopened  negotia 
tions  by  telling  her  to  pick  up  her  revolver.  She  had 
left  it  behind  her  on  the  mantel-shelf.  He  took  it  in 
his  hand  and  examined  it.  It  was  a  repeater. 
Every  chamber  was  loaded.  He  whistled  softly — 
so  she  had  meant  business !  Setting  the  hammer  at 
half-cock,  he  slipped  the  weapon  in  his  pocket.  He 
was  master  of  the  situation  now. 

Why  didn't  he  go  ?  Two  hours  of  steady  driving, 
three  at  the  most,  and  he  could  be  in  London. 
He  reminded  himself  that  at  this  very  moment  his 


132  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

private  papers  might  be  in  the  process  of  being  ran 
sacked.  What  if  they  were?  The  possibility  left 
him  utterly  indifferent.  He  couldn't  save  them  after 
the  lapse  of  another  three  hours. 

No,  the  truth  was  that  since  his  voyage  on  the 
Ryndam  all  the  emphases  of  his  life  were  becoming 
altered.  The  importance  of  money  and  power  no 
longer  seemed  paramount.  After  nearly  forty  years 
of  living,  he  had  awakened  to  the  fact  that  it  was 
women  who  shed  a  radiance  of  glamour  in  an  other 
wise  gloomy  world.  Of  all  human  adventures  they 
were  the  most  enthralling  and  the  least  certain  of 
rewarding. 

It  was  curiosity  that  had  enticed  him  into  his 
present  entanglements ;  his  curiosity  had  yet  to  be 
satisfied.  With  a  revolver  in  his  pocket,  he  felt  that 
he  now  possessed  the  means  of  extracting  the  right 
answers  to  his  questions.  He  had  suffered  mild  in 
conveniences,  but  so  far  he  hadn't  done  so  badly. 
He  had  established  mysterious  relations  with  two 
beautiful  women.  One  of  them  was  already  under  the 
same  roof;  the  other,  he  believed,  was  momentarily 
expected.  He  began  to  figure  himself  as  a  poet,  a 
dreamer,  a  potential  storm-center  of  romance. 

"And  all  because  she  has  blue  eyes !"  he  hinted. 

Then  he  remembered  that  Santa's  eyes  were  gray, 
and  that  up  to  the  last  half-hour  it  had  been  Santa 
whom  he  had  supposed  that  he  was  following. 

He  gazed  about  him,  making  an  inspection  of  the 
room,  trying  to  guess  at  the  characters  of  its  in 
habitants.  It  was  square  and  small.  Its  walls  were 


HE  PLUNGES  INTO  ROMANCE       133 

lined  ceiling-high  with  shelves  overloaded  with  books 
of  a  learned  appearance.  A  work-basket  stood  on 
a  mahogany  desk  with  mending,  scissors,  and  reels 
of  cotton  strewn  near  it.  A  piano  had  been  crushed 
into  a  corner,  looking  flippantly  out  of  place  amid 
these  scholarly  surroundings.  Below  the  mantel 
shelf  was  a  rack  containing  a  row  of  pipes.  Set 
about  wherever  a  space  allowed  were  vases  of  freshly 
cut  flowers. 

The  contradictions  of  the  room  suggested  that  it 
had  once  been  a  man's  den,  but  had  now  been  taken 
over  by  a  woman.  This  seemed  to  indicate  that  the 
owner  of  the  house  was  actually  a  widow. 

Almost  the  whole  of  the  wall  confronting  the  door 
was  occupied  by  a  tall  French  window,  which  opened 
directly  on  a  lawn.  Shrubs  grew  waist-high  about 
it.  Instinct  told  him  that  this  was  the  likeliest  ap 
proach  for  the  other  person,  by  whose  order  his 
kidnaping  had  been  plotted.  He  felt  convinced  that 
this  person  would  prove  to  be  a  woman,  but  he  was 
taking  no  chances.  With  the  night  behind  her,  she 
could  spy  on  him  for  hours  without  being  detected. 
She  might  be  spying  on  him  now. 

Assuming  a  listless  manner,  he  seated  himself  to 
one  side  of  the  fireplace.  Out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye, 
without  seeming  to  do  so,  he  watched  the  shadowy 
panes.  His  right  hand  was  thrust  into  his  pocket, 
gripping  the  revolver. 

After  the  lapse  of  some  minutes,  he  heard  in 
the  passage  the  widow's  returning  footsteps.  Out- 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 

side  the  door  she  halted,  fumbling  at  the  handle. 
Giving  up  the  attempt,  she  called  to  him  to  open. 
Just  as  he  was  rising,  a  face,  tense  with  eagerness, 
lifted  itself  out  of  the  bushes,  peering  in  on  him. 


CHAPTER  THE  FOURTH 


HE    BECOMES    PAST    OF    THE    GAME 


face  hung  there  against  the  darkness  for  a 
•*•     second;   then   the   leaves    closed   over   it   as   it 
was  stealthily  withdrawn.     In  the  utterness  of  his 
astonishment,  Hindwood  all  but  gave  himself  away. 
It  was  not  the  face  he  had  expected. 

Masking  his  excitement  with  a  yawn,  he  turned  his 
back  on  the  window  and  stepped  toward  the  door, 
opening  it  sufficiently  to  thrust  his  head  into  the 
passage,  but  not  wide  enough  to  permit  the  watcher 
in  the  bushes  to  learn  anything  of  the  person  with 
whom  he  talked.  He  found  his  captress  standing 
just  beyond  the  threshold,  carrying  a  tray,  which 
accounted  for  her  awkwardness. 

"You  won't  have  to  dine  in  the  village,"  she  ex 
plained.  Then,  catching  his  strange  expression, 
"What  has  happened?" 

"Some  one  was  to  come  to-night,"  he  whispered: 
"the  person  who  gave  orders  for  my  kidnaping. 
Isn't  that  so?  She  was  to  enter  through  the  win 
dow  from  the  lawn,  while  you  held  me  prisoner  at 
the  revolver's  point." 

"Is  she  here?" 

135 


136  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

"No,  but  a  man  who  is  her  enemy — a  Major 
Cleasby.  He's  hiding  directly  in  her  path.  He 
supposed  you  were  she  when  you  tried  the  door. 
He  showed  his  face.  Is  there  any  way  in  which  we 
can  warn  her?'* 

The  widow  set  down  her  tray.  Her  eyes  met  his 
searchingly.  "If  the  man  were  there,  you  wouldn't 
want  to  save  her." 

"Why  not?  You  think  I've  invented  the  man  in 
the  bushes  in  order  that  Santa  may  be  scared  away? 
I'm  no  more  afraid  of  Santa  than  I  was  of  you. 
Besides,  in  your  absence  I've  stolen  your  revolver. 
Ah,  that  convinces  you!  The  man's  her  husband 
and  a  secret  service  agent.  I  can  feel  his  eyes  in 
my  back.  If  you  don't  warn  her,  she'll  be  caught. 
There  must  have  been  some  prearranged  signal. 
What  was  it?" 

Instead  of  answering,  she  pressed  nearer,  glancing 
fearfully  across  her  shoulder  into  the  unlighted  hall. 
Her  voice  came  so  faintly  that  he  could  only  just 
hear  her. 

"She  wouldn't  spare  us.  Why  should  you  and 
I — ?  You  don't  know  what  she  intended." 

He  smiled  grimly.  "I  can  guess.  I  was  to  have 
been  her  scapegoat  for  the  Rogovich  murder.  She 
was  staging  a  new  version  of  what  happened  in  the 
woods  of  Vincennes.  Whether  she  escaped  or  was 
brought  to  trial,  I  was  to  have  been  arrested.  By 
that  time  she  would  have  clothed  me  with  the  appear 
ance  of  her  guilt.  I  was  to  have  figured  as  her  lover 
and  the  Prince's  rival.  The  motive  for  my  crime  was 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     137 

to  have  been  jealousy.  The  old  story — an  innocent 
man  dying  in  her  stead!" 

"If  you  think  you  know  that,  why  should  you, 
unless  you  are  her  lover?" 

"Because  she's  a  woman." 

Her  hands  seized  his,  coaxing  him  from  the  door 
way  into  the  darkened  passage.  "For  the  love  of 
God,  go !"  she  implored.  "I  give  you  back  your 
parole." 

Drawing  her  to  him,  he  held  her  fast.  "Don't 
struggle.  He  might  hear  you.  You  decoyed  me. 
You  trapped  me.  Why  this  change?  What  makes 
you  so  concerned  for  my  safety?" 

"I  didn't  know,"  she  panted,  "the  kind  of  man 
you  are." 

"What  kind?" 

Her  heart  beat  wildly.  She  lay  against  him  un- 
stirring,  her  face  averted.  The  moment  he  released 
her,  she  burst  forth  into  new  pleading. 

"For  my  sake.     I  beg  of  you." 

Into  the  grimness  of  his  smiling  there  stole  a 
gleam  of  tenderness.  "And  leave  you?  I  guess  not. 
What's  the  signal?" 

"The  piano." 

"Come,  then,"  he  said,  "you  shall  play  for  me. 
While  you  play,  if  we  mask  our  expressions,  we  can 
talk  of  what  we  choose.  Outwardly,  to  deceive  the 
man  in  the  bushes,  we  must  act  a  part.  I'rr  an  old 
friend.  I've  dropped  in  unexpectedly.  You've 
provided  me  with  supper.  While  I  eat,  we  chatter 
and  laugh.  You  sit  at  the  piano  and  sing  for  me 


138  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

occasionally.  When  the  hour  for  Santa's  arrival  is 
past,  I  take  my  leave.  If  you're  brave,  we  can  carry 
the  farce  through.  Are  you  game?" 

For  answer  she  picked  up  the  tray  and  stepped 
into  the  room,  smiling  back  at  him  as  he  followed. 

"I'm  your  humble  servant,  as  always,  Mr.  Hind- 
wood,  but  I  have  only  two  hands  and  they're  occu 
pied.  If  you'll  bring  up  that  table — yes,  set  it 
before  the  fire.  That's  right.  You  must  be  com 
fortable,  if  I'm  to  sing  for  you.'* 


II 


"She  won't  come  now." 

The  words  reached  him  in  a  sigh.  The  pale  hands 
fluttered  from  the  keyboard.  The  fair  head  dnoped. 
Almost  instantly  she  straightened  herself,  banish 
ing  her  appearance  of  weariness.  "Don't  think  that 
I'm  showing  the  white  feather.  It's  only  that  I'm 
exhausted.  She  won't  come  now.  I'm  sure  of  it." 
Then,  bending  forward  with  a  nervous  tremor,  "I 
daren't  look  round.  Has  he  gone?" 

Hindwood  pushed  back  his  chair  from  before  the 
hearth.  For  the  moment  he  did  not  answer.  He  was 
striving  to  restore  the  spell  which  the  intrusion  of 
her  fear  had  broken.  Glancing  at  her  sideways,  he 
regarded  her  quietly  where  she  sat  at  the  piano  in 
her  widow's  garb.  Through  the  window  at  her  back 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  garden,  shadowy  and 
patched  with  moonlight.  Above  the  silence  he  heard 


the  rumble  of  waves,  sifting  the  pebbles  on  the  shore. 
Who  was  she,  this  woman  who  possessed  the  magic 
to  enchant  him?  Who  had  been  her  husband? 
What  kind  oT  man?  Had  she  loved  him?  How  long 
since  he  had  died?  There  were  so  many  questions. 

She  had  persuaded  him  into  following  her,  well 
knowing  that  he  believed  her  to  be  Santa.  She  had 
met  his  discovery  of  her  impersonation  with  a  threat. 
When  the  luck  was  all  in  her  favor,  with  the  panic 
of  a  stricken  conscience  she  had  thrown  in  her  hand. 
For  the  past  two  hours,  in  this  cozy  room,  she  had 
surrounded  him  with  shy  intimacies  of  affection, 
to  the  end  that  the  unseen  spectator,  listening  out 
side  the  panes,  might  be  beguiled.  Apparently  the 
deception  had  succeeded ;  the  spectator  had  given  no 
sign.  It  had  succeeded  too  well  for  Hindwood.  It 
had  roused  in  him  the  longing  that,  behind  her  pre 
tense  of  friendship,  there  might  lurk  a  genuine  emo 
tion  of  liking.  He  had  tried  to  forget  that  the  scene 
was  stage-set.  He  had  wanted  to  believe  that  it 
was  real. 

"Has  he  gone?" 

There  was  a  break  in  her  voice. 

He  pulled  himself  together.  "Do  you  wish  me  to 
make  certain?" 

Rising,  he  lounged  over  to  the  piano  as  though  to 
select  a  sheet  from  the  pile  of  music.  In  a  flash  he 
turned,  wrenching  wide  the  doors  of  the  French- 
window,  and  was  across  the  step  in  a  bound.  Noth 
ing  rose  from  the  shadows  to  disturb  the  peace  of 


140  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

the  night.  Stooping  by  the  bushes,  he  made  a  hur 
ried  examination. 

"Come,"  he  called.  Then,  seeing  how  she  pressed 
her  hands  against  her  mouth,  "There's  no  need  to 
fear." 

When  she  was  standing  by  his  side,  he  explained: 
"To-morrow  you  might  think  that  I'd  tricked  you. 
I  want  you  to  see  for  yourself.  Here's  where  he 
was  hiding  when  he  peered  in  on  me.  The  ground's 
trampled.  The  bushes  are  bent  back." 

"He  may  be  still  here,"  she  whispered,  "in  the 
garden — somewhere." 

Hindwood  smiled  reassuringly  into  her  upturned 
face.  "He  wouldn't  do  you  any  harm  if  he  were. 
Remember  he's  a  secret  service  agent.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  ought  to  make  you  feel  safe." 

"Safe!"  She  knotted  her  hands  against  her 
breast.  "Shall  I  ever  feel  safe?  Oh,  if  I  could 
confess — to  you,  to  any  one !" 

"If  it  would  help " 

Without  giving  him  a  chance  to  finish  his  sentence, 
she  plucked  at  his  sleeve  with  the  eagerness  of  a  child. 
"Would  you?" 

"What?" 

"Let  me?" 


Ill 


They  had  reentered  the  room,  fastening  the  win 
dow  securely  behind  them.  When  that  was  done, 
they  had  drawn  the  curtains  across  the  panes.  She 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     141 

had  flung  herself  into  a  chair  beside  the  fire  and  was 
waiting  impatiently  for  him  to  join  her.  But  he 
hovered  in  the  center  of  the  room,  fingering  his 
watch  and  looking  troubled. 

"What's  delaying  you?"  she  asked  without  turn 
ing. 

He  slipped  his  watch  into  his  pocket.  "I  had  no 
idea  it  was  so  late." 

"Does  that  matter?  Till  morning  there  are  no 
trains." 

"I  was  thinking  of  hotels." 

"They'll  be  shut." 

"Precisely.     So  what  am  I ?" 

"Stay  with  me,"  she  said  lazily. 

The  room  became  profoundly  silent.  The  dark 
ened  house  seemed  to  listen.  Had  he  plumbed  a  new 
depth  in  this  drama  of  betrayal  at  the  moment  when 
he  hoped  he  had  discovered  loyalty?  He  had  been 
deceived  by  women  before.  Had  he  not  allowed 
Santa  to  deceive  him,  he  would  not  have  been  here. 
He  might  tell  himself  that  this  woman  was  different. 
If  a  man  did  not  tell  himself  that  each  new  woman 
was  different,  the  mischief  of  love  would  end. 

He  caught  sight  of  her  flaxen  head  and  became 
ashamed  of  his  reflections.  It  wasn't  possible,  if  the 
soul  was  foul,  that  the  flesh  should  be  so  fair.  She 
had  the  wonder  of  the  dawn  in  her  eyes.  Nothing 
that  she  had  said  or  done  could  belie  the  frankness 
of  her  innocence.  Standing  behind  her  chair,  he 
gazed  down  in  puzzlement  at  her  graciousness. 

"There  are  conventions.     We  may  have  met  un- 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 

conventionally,  but  neither  of  us  can  afford  to  ig 
nore  them." 

Without  looking  up,  she  answered,  "If  you  were 
as  alone  as  I  am,  you  could  afford  to  ignore  any 
thing." 

"Perhaps  I  am." 

"Then  you  understand." 

"I  think  I  understand."  He  spoke  gently.  "I 
suppose  no  man  can  ever  be  so  lonely  as  a  woman, 
especially  as  a  woman  who  has  lost  her  happiness, 
but  I,  too,  have  been  lonely.  Everybody  has.  The 
cowardice  which  comes  of  loneliness  is  responsible 
for  nearly  every  wickedness.  Most  thefts,  and  cheat- 
ings,  and  even  murders  are  committed  in  an  effort 
to  gain  companionship.  But  you  can't  elude  lone 
liness  by  short-cuts.  Wherever  you  go,  it's  with  you 
from  birth  to  death.  Brave  people  make  it  their 
friend.  Cowards  let  it  become  their  tempter.  Lone 
liness  is  no  excuse  for  wrong-doing,  nor  even  for 
surrendering  to  the  appearance  of  it." 

"Preaching?" 

"No.  Trying  to  share  with  you  my  experience. 
Until  this  afternoon,  you  didn't  know  that  I  ex 
isted.  All  your  life  up  to  the  last  five  minutes,  you've 
been  able  to  do  without  me.  Don't  be  greedy  and 
spoil  everything  before  it's  started.  There's  to 
morrow." 

"Why  wait  for  to-morrow  when  I  trust  you  now?" 

He  stooped  lower.  She  had  become  irresistibly 
dear.  In  a  rush  he  had  found  the  clue  to  her  char- 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     143 

acter — her  childishness.  She  couldn't  bear  to  post 
pone  the  things  she  wanted. 

"Trust  me!  I  wonder!  You're  the  first  woman 
to  have  the  daring  to  tell  me.  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
feel  complimented ;  at  this  hour  of  night  one  has  to 
be  a  little  cold  to  be  trusted  like  that.  But  I  trust 
you — which  is  strange  after  all  that's  happened. 
The  person  I  distrust  is  myself.  You're  beautiful. 
The  most  beautiful " 

"Am  I  more  beautiful  than  Santa?" 

He  caught  the  vision  of  her  blue  eyes  glinting  up 
at  him.  There  was  nothing  roguish  in  their  expres 
sion.  They  were  pathetic  in  their  earnestness.  Her 
throat  was  stretched  back,  white  and  firm.  Her 
lips  were  vivid  and  parted.  Her  question  sounded 
like  the  ruse  of  a  coquette,  yet  she  seemed  wholly 
unaware  of  her  attraction. 

He  drew  himself  erect,  staring  at  the  wall  that  he 
might  forbid  himself  the  danger  of  looking  at  her. 
His  voice  came  harsh  and  abrupt.  "Your  confes 
sion  can  keep  till  morning.  One  can  say  and  unsay 
anything.  It's  deeds  that  can  never  be  unsaid." 

He  had  reached  the  door.     She  spoke  dully. 

"You  despise  me."  And  then,  "All  my  life  I've 
waited  for  to-morrows.  Go  quickly." 

Glancing  across  his  shoulder  he  saw  her,  a  mist 
of  gold  in  a  great  emptiness.  Slowly  he  turned  back. 

"Can't  you  guess  the  reason  for  my  going?  I 
reverence  you  too  much." 

Clutching  at  his  hands,  she  dragged  herself  to  her 
feet.  "It's  friendship  that  I'm  asking.  What's  the 


144  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

use  of  reverence?    Like  me  a  little.     You'd  do  more 
for  Santa.    Only  to  like  me  wouldn't  cost  you  much." 


IV 


"I  should  have  died  if  you'd  left  me."  He  was 
feeling  both  amused  and  annoyed  at  his  surrender; 
at  the  same  time  he  was  on  the  alert  for  develop 
ments.  She  had  extinguished  the  lamps.  The  sole 
illumination  was  the  firelight.  For  what  reason  she 
had  done  it,  whether  as  an  aid  to  confession  or  as  a 
discouragement  to  watchers,  she  allowed  him  to 
guess.  Whatever  the  reason,  the  precaution  was 
wise,  but  it  increased  the  atmosphere  of  liaison. 
He  had  pushed  back  his  chair  to  the  extreme  corner 
of  the  hearth,  so  that  he  was  scarcely  discernible. 
She  sat  where  the  glow  from  the  coals  beat  up  into 
her  face.  He  saw  her  profile  against  a  background 
of  darkness. 

"Died!"  He  pursed  his  lips  in  masculine  om 
niscience.  "You'd  have  gone  to  your  bed  and  had 
a  good  night's  rest." 

"I  shouldn't.  I  was  in  terror.  I  used  to  be  afraid 
only  by  night ;  now  it's  both  day  and  night.  You're 

never  afraid.  You  weren't  afraid  even  when  I . 

How  do  you  manage  it?" 

"By  doing  things,  instead  of  thinking  about  the 
things  that  can  be  done  to  me.  I've  learned  that 
what  we  fear  never  happens — fear's  a  waste  of  time. 
Fear's  imagination  playing  tricks  by  pouncing  out 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     145 

of  cupboards.  It's  the  idiot  of  the  intellect,  gibber 
ing  in  the  attic  after  nightfall.  It's  a  coward, 
spreading  cowardice  with  false  alarms.  It's  a  liar 
and  a  libeller;  life's  a  thousand  times  kinder  than 
fear  would  have  us  paint  it." 

She  sighed  happily.    "It  was  kind  to  me  to-night." 

He  waited  for  her  confession  to  commence.  She 
leaned  back,  her  eyes  half  shut,  watching  the  red 
landscape  in  the  dancing  flames.  Time  moved 
gently.  Night  seemed  eternal.  Her  contentment 
proved  contagious.  Neither  of  them  spoke.  Noth 
ing  mattered  save  the  comfort  of  her  presence.  In 
a  hollow  of  the  coals  he  invented  a  dream  cottage  to 
which  he  would  take  her.  It  had  a  scarlet  wood 
behind  it  and  mountains  with  ruby-tinted  caves.  As 
the  fire  settled,  the  mirage  faded. 

"Does  it  strike  you  as  comic,"  he  questioned, 
"that  you  and  I  should  sit  here  after  midnight  and 
that  I  shouldn't  even  know  what  to  call  you?" 

"Varensky.    Anna  Varensky." 

"Russian?" 

She  nodded. 

"But  are  you  Russian?" 

"I'm  Ivan  Varensky's  wife." 

"You  say  it  proudly,  as  though  I  ought  to  know 
who  Ivan  Varensky  was." 

She  turned  her  head  slowly,  wondering  at  him. 
"There's  only  one  Ivan  Varensky:  the  man  who 
wanted  to  be  like  Christ." 

Hindwood  jerked  himself  into  wakefulness.  "I'm 
afraid  I  need  enlightenment.  I  don't " 


146  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

"You  do,"  she  contradicted  patiently,  "or  rather, 
you  will  when  I've  helped  you  to  recall  him.  How 
hurt  he  would  be,  poor  Ivan,  that  a  man  of  your 
standing  should  so  soon  have  forgotten  him !  He 
hoped  to  make  such  a  noise  in  the  world.  After 
Czardom  had  fallen,  he  aimed  to  be  a  savior,  heal 
ing  men  with  words.  But  he  wanted  to  be  crucified 
at  once.  He  cared  more  for  Calvary  than  for  the 
road  that  led  up  to  it.  He  was  an  emotionalist, 
impatient  of  Gethsemane;  it  was  the  crown  of 
thorns  that  he  coveted.  Having  only  words  with 
which  to  save  humanity,  he  dashed  all  over  Russia 
in  special  trains,  speechifying  at  every  halting-place, 
foretelling  his  approaching  end.  He  had  no  time 
to  waste;  he  believed  his  days  were  numbered.  His 
message  was  always  the  same,  whether  he  was  ad 
dressing  the  Duma,  armies  marching  into  action,  or 
a  handful  of  peasants:  he  was  about  to  die  for 
Russia.  Then  suddenly  Trotzky  and  Lenine  came. 
They  were  men  who  did  things ;  they  overthrew  his 
government.  Worse,  still,  they  refused  to  fulfill  his 
prophecies;  instead  of  executing  him,  they  bundled 
him  into  exile.  To  be  forced  to  live,  when  he  had 
pledged  himself  to  die,  was  a  more  cruel  crucifixion 
than  any  he  had  anticipated.  He  found  himself 
nailed  to  the  cross  of  ridicule  with  no  one  to  ap 
plaud  his  sacrifice.  He  was  left  with  nothing  to 
talk  about,  for  the  thing  he  had  talked  about  had 
not  happened.  He  was  an  idealist,  an  inspirer,  a 
prophet,  but  because  death  had  avoided  liim,  there 
was  no  gospel  to  write.  Having  climbed  the  long 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     147 

road  to  Calvary,  he  had  the  tragedy  to  survive. 
Don't  think  I'm  belittling  him.  I  loved  him.  It  was 
a  proud,  but  not  an  easy  task  to  be  the  wife  of  a 
man  who  wanted  to  be  like  Christ." 

She  collapsed  into  silence,  sitting  lost  in  thought, 
her  arms  hanging  limply  by  her  sides.  He  wondered 
what  pictures  she  was  seeing  in  the  fire — armed  men 
marching,  revolution,  palaces  going  up  in  flame. 

Of  course  he  remembered  the  Varensky  she  had 
described — the  Varensky  who,  in  the  darkest  hour  of 
the  war,  had  hurled  himself  like  a  knight-errant  to 
the  rescue  of  the  Allies.  It  was  he  who  was  to  have 
consolidated  Russia,  leading  its  millions  in  an  endless 
tide  to  the  defeat  of  the  enemies  of  righteousness. 
It  was  freedom  he  had  promised ;  freedom  to  every 
body.  He  had  preached  that  every  man  was  good 
in  himself,  that  the  things  that  made  men  bad  were 
laws.  Therefore  he  had  swept  all  laws  aside.  He 
had  done  away  with  compulsion,  repealed  death 
penalties,  thrown  prisons  wide.  For  a  day  and  night 
he  had  held  the  stage,  a  shining  figure,  adored  by 
despairing  eyes.  Then  the  slaves  whom  he  had  re 
leased  from  restraints  had  surged  over  him.  He  had 
vanished,  trampled  beneath  ungrateful  feet,  and 
Russia  had  become  a  mob. 

So  this  was  Varensky's  wife!  He  felt  awed.  The 
romantic  heroism  of  her  husband's  failure  clothed 
her  with  a  wistful  sacredness.  Three  years  ago  he 
could  not  have  approached  her.  He  would  scarcely 
have  dared  to  have  regarded  her  as  a  woman.  The 
hysteria  of  the  moment  had  canonized  her.  Streets 


148  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

through  which  she  drove  in  Petrograd  had  been  lined 
with  kneeling  throngs.  There  had  been  something 
medieval  in  the  spontaneity  of  her  worship.  It  had 
been  rumored  that  she  was  a  bride  immaculate;  that 
her  purity  was  the  secret  of  her  husband's  strength. 
Her  face  made  the  story  credible.  It  had  the  virgin 
innocence  of  a  saint's.  And  here  he  was  allowed  to 
sit  beside  her,  with  three  years  gone,  sharing  her 
hearth  in  this  obscure  place  of  hiding! 

"You  were  a  Russian  Joan  of  Arc,"  he  declared 
enthusiastically.  "How  well  I  remember  all  the 

legends  one  read  about  you.  And  Varensky 

It  doesn't  matter  that  he  failed;  his  was  the  most 
gallant  figure  of  the  entire  war.  When  every  nation 
was  embittered,  he  set  us  an  example  of  how  not  to 
hate.  He  refused  to  kill,  when  all  of  us  were  slaying. 
He  had  the  courage  of  meekness ;  in  that  at  least  he 
followed  Christ.  What  became  of  him?  There  was 
a  report " 

"There  have  been  many  reports,"  she  interrupted 
sadly.  "Lest  the  latest  be  true,  I  wear  mourning. 
I  wear  mourning  for  him  always.  Before  his  fall  I 
was  his  perpetual  bride ;  since  his  fall  I  am  his  per 
petual  widow.  He  wishes  to  be  dead,  so  to  please 
him " 

"Then  he's  still  alive?"  Immediately  he  was  con 
scious  of  the  indecency  of  his  disappointment. 

She  gazed  into  the  darkness  with  a  mild  surprise. 
"I  do  not  know.  I  never  know.  That's  the  torture 
of  it.  He  was  always  less  a  man  than  a  spirit.  I 
begin  to  think  he  can  not  die." 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     149 

"You  want  him ?" 

If  she  had  heard  his  uncompleted  question,  she 
ignored  it.  With  folded  hands  she  stared  into  the 
red  heart  of  the  fire.  Behind  her,  across  the  walls 
and  ceiling  as  flames  leaped  and  flickered,  shadows 
took  fantastic  shapes.  When  she  spoke,  as  though 
she  were  talking  to  herself,  her  words  came  softly. 

"He  was  such  a  child — so  dear,  so  vain,  so  in 
tense,  so  sensitive.  Why  did  he  marry  me,  if  it  was 
only  to  resign  me?  He  treated  me  as  he  treated 
Russia.  We  were  both  waiting  for  him  to  take  us 
in  his  arms.  But  it  was  always  ideals — things  one 
can't  embrace — that  drew  out  his  affections.  Had 
he  loved  humanity  less  and  individuals  more,  he 
could  have  gone  so  far.  There  was  something  mon 
strous  about  his  self-abnegations.  Perhaps  he  de 
nied  himself  the  things  for  which  he  did  not  care. 
He  wanted  to  seem  nobler  than  any  one  else. 
Through  egotism  he  missed  his  chance.  Had  he 
planned  to  live,  he  could  have  killed  his  enemies  and 
prevented  revolution.  There  was  a  time  when  he 
could  have  crushed  both  Lenine  and  Trotzky.  But 
he  had  to  be  too  noble.  'No,*  he  said,  'if  their  ideal 
is  more  right  than  mine,  it  will  conquer.  Truth  can 
not  be  silenced  by  slaughter.'  It  was  his  inhuman 
magnanimity  that  defeated  him.  So  Lenine  and 
Trotzky  grew  strong  and  crushed  him.  Because  he 
had  planned  to  die,  millions  are  starving,  and  Russia 
is  in  chaos." 

"But  he  doesn't  own  it?" 

"In   his   heart — yes.      Like   a   General   who   has 


150  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

blundered,  the  vision  of  lost  battlefields  is  forever  in 
his  eyes — the  forests  of  white  crosses !  His  ego 
tism  is  gone.  He  wants  to  make  atonement;  to 
perish  seems  the  only  way.  Any  one  who  would 
delay  him,  even  though  she  were  a  woman  who  loved 
him,  is  his  enemy.  In  his  remorse  he  hounds  death 
as  other  men  avoid  it.  He's  head  of  the  counter 
revolution  and  goes  continually  into  Russia  for  the 
overthrow  of  Bolshevism.  Not  that  he  hopes  for 
success,  but  that  he  may  be  put  against  a  wall  and 
shot." 

"And  always  he  returns?" 

"Always  until  this  last  time." 

Her  voice  sank  away  in  a  whisper.  He  eyed  her 
with  misgiving.  What  was  it  she  desired? 

"I  read  something  of  this.  He's  been  missing  for 
a  long  time?" 

"A  long  time." 

Coming  out  of  the  shadows,  so  that  she  could  see 
his  face,  he  drew  his  chair  close  to  hers. 

"And  what  has  this  to  do  with  your  confession?" 


She  flinched,  as  though  he  had  made  a  motion  to 
strike  her.  "My  confession !  Ah,  yes !  I  forgot." 

She  tried  to  smile.  Stretching  out  her  hand,  she 
touched  him  in  a  timid  appeal  for  understanding. 
Taking  it  between  his  own  he  held  it  fast. 

"Like  that,"  he  said,  "as  though  it  were  a  bird 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     151 

that's  tired.  It  isn't  its  own  nest,  but  it's  safe  and 
warm ;  let  it  rest  till  it  grows  stronger." 

"You're  good,"  she  faltered.  "Most  good  men 
are  hard." 

"Maybe,"  he  laughed.  "But  I'm  not  good.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  don't  suppose  I'm  bad.  I'm  simply 
a  man  who's  always  had  to  fight,  so  I  know  what  it's 
like  to  be  up  against  it.  You're  up  against  it  at 
present.  You  can  see  nothing  before  you  but  a  high 
stone  wall  with  no  way  round  it.  I've  been  there, 
and  I've  found  that  when  you  can't  get  round  a 
wall,  there's  usually  a  door.  What  do  you  say? 
Shall  we  look  for  a  door  together?" 

"I  have."  She  sank  her  head.  "Every  day  and 
night  in  three  interminable  years  I've  looked  for  it. 
I'm  like  a  person  lost  in  a  fog,  standing  still,  listen 
ing,  running,  falling." 

"Scared  to  death?" 

She  nodded. 

"Then  don't  be  scared;  stop  running.  Wait  for 
your  fear  to  catch  up  with  you.  If  you  face  it,  it'll 
shrink  to  nothing.  The  feet  of  a  pursuer  are  like 
an  army.  What's  causing  your  panic?  Varensky? 
The  thought  that  he  may  not  return?" 

"No." 

"That  he  may?" 

"No." 

"Then?" 

"That  he  may  go  on  wasting  me  forever." 

She  waited  for  him  to  say  something.  When  he 
remained  silent,  she  bent  forward  staring  vacantly 


152  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

into  the  hearth.  "Perhaps  I'm  a  coward  and  un 
faithful.  Perhaps  if  he'd  been  successful I 

know  what  he  thinks  of  me:  that  I'm  a  fair-weather 
wife.  But  I'm  not.  If  it  would  help  him,  I'd  give 
my  life  for  him.  He  doesn't  want  my  life.  He 
doesn't  want  my  body.  He  wants  the  one  thing  that 
I  can't  give  him — that  I  should  believe  in  him. 
There  are  people  who  still  believe  in  him — the  Little 
Grandmother.  There  are  others,  like  Prince  Rogo- 
vich,  who  pretended  to  believe  in  him  that  he  might 
use  him  as  a  cat's-paw.  He  says  good-by  to  me 
for  the  last  time  and  vanishes.  I  wait  in  retirement 
for  news  of  his  execution.  At  the  end  of  two  months, 
three  months,  half  a  year,  he  comes  back.  Then  the 
rehearsing  for  his  martyrdom  commences  all  afresh. 
If  there  were  anything  I  could  do !  But  to  be  wasted 
for  no  purpose !" 

She  turned  her  head  wearily,  glancing  at  him  side 
ways.  "You  called  me  the  Joan  of  Russia.  I  was 
almost.  There  was  a  time  when  not  to  be  loved  and 
not  to  be  a  mother  seemed  a  small  price  to  pay  for 
sainthood.  It  was  my  happiness  against  the  happi 
ness  of  millions.  But  now ;'  Her  eyes  filmed 

over. 

"But  now ?"  he  prompted. 

She  brushed  her  tears  away  with  pitiful  defiance. 
"I  want  to  be  a  woman — to  be  everything  in  some 
man's  life." 

"Perhaps  you  are  in  his,  but  he  doesn't  show  it." 

She  seemed  to  listen  for  laughter.     Then,  "No," 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     153 

she  said.  "When  I  try  to  be  a  woman,  I  play  Satan 
to  him." 

"And  that's  the  wall?" 

"Not  all  of  it.    There's  Santa." 

In  the  swift  march  of  his  emotions  he  had  almost 
forgotten  Santa.  As  though  she  had  been  drowning 
and  he  had  turned  back  from  rescuing  her,  the  men 
tion  of  her  name  stung  him  with  reproach. 

"What  of  Santa?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 


VI 


"She's  in  love  with  my  husband." 

He  let  go  her  hand.  "Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke? 
Perhaps  you'll  join  me?  No?" 

He  took  his  time  while  he  lit  his  cigarette.  Then, 
speaking  slowly,  "I  can't  believe  all  the  evil  that  I've 
heard  about  this  woman.  And  yet  I  ought.  Every 
fresh  person  has  told  me  something  increasingly  vile. 
To  make  a  case  against  her,  I  have  only  to  take  all 
the  trouble  she's  caused  me.  I  meet  her  on  a  liner 
and  part  with  her  on  landing;  from  that  moment  I 
have  no  peace.  I'm  pestered  by  strangers  accusing 
and  defending  her.  My  room  is  entered  by  spies. 
I  find  an  anonymous  note  pinned  to  my  pillow.  I'm 
lured  out  of  London  into  the  heart  of  the  country  on 
the  pretext  that  she's  in  danger  and  I  can  help  her. 
You  know  the  rest.  Until  the  happenings  of  to 
night,  the  most  probable  explanation  seemed  to  be 
that  she  had  taken  a  secret  fancy  to  me  and  had 


154  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

turned  to  me  in  her  distress,  when  she  found  herself 
suspected  of  a  crime.  That  theory  won't  hold  water 
any  longer." 

"It  might." 

"It  couldn't.  You  tell  me  she's  in  love  with  your 
husband." 

"Santa  can  be  in  love  with  as  many  men  as  serve 
her  purpose.  The  only  loyalty  to  which  she's  con 
stant  is  the  memory  of  her  dead  child." 

He  shook  himself  irritably.  "Nothing  that  you* 
or  any  one  has  told  me  explains  her.  She  left  on  me 
an  impression  of  nobility  which  absolutely  contra 
dicts  all  this  later  information.  Until  I  met  you,  it 
almost  seemed  there  was  a  conspiracy  on  foot  to 
poison  my  mind.  What  she  is  said  to  have  done  may 
all  be  true,  but  I  can't  help  searching  behind  her 
actions  for  a  higher  motive.  You'd  clear  matters  up 
if  you'd  tell  me  frankly  how  it  is  that  you  come  into 
the  picture." 

"The  picture!"  She  shrank  back  from  him  like 
a  timid  child. 

Controlling  himself,  he  spoke  patiently.  "Do  I 
need  to  be  explicit?  You  ought  to  hate  her.  She's 
in  love  with  your  husband.  When,  a  few  hours  ago, 
it  was  a  case  of  warning  her  of  the  trap  she  was 
walking  into,  you  were  reluctant  to  give  the  signal. 
'She  wouldn't  spare  us,'  you  said;  'so  why  should 

you  and  I ?'  And  yet  you're  her  accomplice. 

It  was  you  whom  I  followed.  It  was  you  who,  when 
you'd  got  me  into  this  room,  tried  to  hold  me  at  the 
revolver's  point." 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     155 

She  buried  her  face  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm.  Her 
voice  came  muffled.  "It  was  I." 

He  waited  for  her  to  say  more.  She  made  no 
sound — not  even  of  sobbing. 

"It  was  a  dangerous  game  to  play,"  he  reminded 
her.  "You  didn't  know  your  man  or  how  he  would 
take  it.  You  must  have  had  some  strong  motive. 
You  might  have  killed  me  without  even  intending. 
What  a  risk  you  ran,  doing  a  thing  like  that  single- 
handed  !  For  a  moment,  when  I  first  entered,  every 
thing  was  touch  and  go." 

And  still  she  made  no  reply. 

The  fire  had  burned  low.  He  emptied  coals  on  it. 
To  bridge  the  embarrassment  of  her  silence,  he  went 
over  to  the  window,  pulling  aside  the  curtains,  and 
stood  gazing  out  at  the  glory  of  the  night.  The 
moon  rode  high.  Trees  were  clumped  and  motion 
less.  The  crooning  of  waves  made  a  continual 
lullaby. 

She  was  married,  and  she  was  wasted.  She  was 
not  wanted,  and  she  was  not  released.  She  had  a 
husband  who  refused  to  live  and  could  not  contrive 
to  die.  As  a  substitute  for  passion  she  had  tried 
sainthood ;  it  had  not  satisfied. 

He  let  the  curtains  fall.  Turning,  he  gazed  back 
at  the  black-garbed  figure  bowed  in  the  half-circle  of 
firelight.  Her  golden  hair  had  broken  loose.  It 
poured  across  her  shoulders  and  gathered  at  her 
feet  in  a  pool.  At  the  moment  she  looked  more  a 
Magdalene  than  a  saint.  And  this  was  the  woman 


156  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

who  had  made  men  brave  by  her  purity — to  whom  a 
nation  had  turned  in  its  agony ! 

A  flood  of  pity  swept  over  him.  Poor,  narrow 
shoulders  to  have  borne  such  a  burden !  Poor,  vir 
gin  feet  to  have  come  so  long  a  journey!  Poor, 
mortal  hands  to  have  given  such  a  blessing!  She 
had  been  robbed  and  cast  aside. 

The  cruelty  of  idealists !  She  was  their  victim. 
What  did  they  attain?  Idealists  slew  happiness  on 
the  altar  of  dreams  that  a  future  happiness  might 
result  from  it.  Though  their  dreams  were  mistaken, 
they  lost  nothing;  they  snatched  their  sensation  of 
godlike  righteousness.  But  who  could  restore  the 
happiness  of  others  which  their  frenzy  had  de 
stroyed  ? 

If  this  time  Varensky  had  had  the  decency  to  die, 
she  was  free.  He  himself  could  take  her.  But  would 
she  want  him?  He  had  no  attractions.  All  that  he 
could  offer  would  be  to  serve  her.  He  couldn't  place 
her  back  on  her  pinnacle  of  fame.  Instead  of 
crowds,  he  would  be  her  only  worshiper.  Would 
that  satisfy  a  woman  who  had  been  a  saint  for  a 
day?  He  could  promise  her  rest  and  protection. 
He  could  take  her  feet  in  his  hands  and  guide  them 
over  rough  places.  And  if  she  wanted  to  be  a 
woman 

Crossing  the  room  on  tiptoe,  he  stood  over  her. 
Sinking  to  his  knee,  he  placed  a  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Won't  you  look  up?  I'm  not  here  to  hurt  you. 
I  wouldn't  even  judge  you.  Life's  been  hard.'* 

When  she  gave  no  sign,  he  spoke  again. 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     157 

"I'm  a  man  and  a  stranger.  You're  a  wife.  But 
you've  told  me  so  much.  You're  wounded.  You 
can't  go  on  by  yourself." 

She  moved.     He  knew  now  that  she  was  listening. 

"There's  that  door  in  the  wall  we  were  going  to 
find.  Perhaps  we've  found  it.  Let  me  be  your 
friend.  It  would  be  foolish  and  wrong  for  me  to 
tell  you  that  I " 

She  raised  her  head.  Her  hair  fell  back,  and  her 
eyes  gazed  out  at  him  with  hungry  intensity.  "Don't 
say  it,"  she  implored.  "Varensky " 

"But  if  he's  dead?  If  I  can  bring  you  sure 
proof?" 

For  answer  she  pressed  his  hand  against  her 
bosom. 


VII 


He  seated  himself  at  her  feet,  his  arms  clasped 
about  his  knees  as  if  crouched  before  a  camp-fire. 
How  much  meaning  had  she  read  into  his  implied 
confession?  He  felt  happy;  happier  than  ever  be 
fore  in  his  life,  and  yet,  if  she  were  the  cause  of  his 
happiness,  the  odds  were  all  against  him.  She  had 
promised  him  nothing.  She  could  promise  him  noth 
ing.  All  he  knew  of  her  was  what  she  had  told  him. 
His  elation  might  prove  to  be  no  more  than  an  emo 
tion  that  would  fade  in  the  chill  light  of  morning. 

"It  would  be  foolish  and  wrong  for  me  to  tell 
you "  The  words  had  risen  to  his  lips  unpre 
meditated.  He  had  not  realized  that  he  cared  for 


158  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

her  until  they  were  uttered.  He  had  merely  felt  an 
immense  compassion,  an  overwhelming  desire  to 
comfort  her.  That  he  should  care  for  her  at  all  was 
preposterous.  It  was  paying  her  no  compliment. 
Love  that  was  worth  the  having  required  a  more 
permanent  incentive  than  physical  beauty.  Her 
mind  and  her  character  were  a  riddle  to  him.  If 
his  passion  was  no  passing  mood  and  she  were  in 
deed  a  widow,  it  would  be  her  mind  and  her  charac 
ter  that  he  might  one  day  marry.  He  ought  to  have 
foreseen  that  something  of  this  sort  would  be  sure 
to  happen  between  a  man  and  woman  left  alone 
after  midnight. 

But  the  triumphant  self  whom  she  had  roused  in 
him  grinned  impudently  at  this  cautious  moralizing. 
He  gloried  in  the  magnificent  unwisdom  of  his  indis 
cretion.  He  was  surprised  and  delighted  at  this 
newly-discovered  capacity  for  recklessness.  When 
experience  was  growing  stale,  he  had  broken  through 
limitations  and  found  himself  gazing  on  an  unguessed 
landscape  where  adventure  commenced  afresh.  He 
could  still  feel  the  softness  of  her  flesh  against  his 
hand.  That  sudden  act  of  tenderness  had  altered  all 
their  relations. 

He  glanced  up  at  her  shyly.  She,  too,  was  dream 
ing.  Her  lips  were  smiling  uncertainly;  there  was 
a  far-away,  brooding  expression  in  her  eyes.  The 
blackness  of  her  mourning  merged  with  the  shadows, 
making  her  seem  disembodied;  all  he  could  see  dis 
tinctly  was  the  golden  torrent  of  her  hair  framing 
the  pallor  of  her  face. 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     159 

"They  knelt  to  you  in  Petrograd.  I  don't  won 
der." 

"Poor  people!  It  did  them  no  good.  I  never 
want  any  one  else  to  do  it." 

"But  I  kneel  to  you.     I  crouch  at  your  feet." 

"I  would  rather  be  loved  than  worshiped."  She 
restrained  him  gently.  "Not  yet." 

"Then,  until  I  may  love,  I  kneel  to  you." 

"You  ought  to  find  me  repellent.  No,  let  me 
speak.  I  own  to  you  that  I'm  married,  and  here  I 
sit  with  you  alone,  not  knowing  whether  my  husband 
lives  or  is  buried.  I  must  be  wicked — more  wicked 
than  I  guessed.  Ivan  was  right;  he  used  to  tell  me 
I  played  Satan  to  him.  These  hands,  which  look 
so  soft  and  white,  are  cruel.  This  face,  which  seems 
so  gentle,  is  a  lie.  This  hair,  which  makes  a  pillow 
for  your  head,  is  a  snare.  One  good  man  has  already 
cast  me  aside.  Rather  than  love  me,  he  preferred 
death.  And  you  are  good.  How  near  I  came  to 
killing  you!"  She  bent  over  him,  taking  his  face 
between  her  hands.  "You!  Do  you  understand?" 

She  had  drawn  his  head  back  against  her  knees. 
Her  lips  all  but  touched  him.  He  could  feel  the 
fanning  of  her  breath.  Her  voice  came  pantingly, 
as  though  she  dreaded  her  own  question:  "What 
can  you  see  in  me?" 

"Blue  eyes,  like  a  glimpse  of  heaven." 

"Tell  me  truly." 

"What  can  I  see?"  He  stared  up  adoringly.  "A 
woman  who's  still  a  child.  A  woman  who's  been 
cheated.  A  woman  whose  arms  are  empty.  A 


160  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

woman  who  sits  outside  a  tomb,  dreaming  of  life." 

"Not  of  life,"  she  corrected  softly;  "of  being 
allowed  to  live  for  a  man." 

"For  me,  perhaps?" 

She  smiled  vaguely. 

"Without  knowing  what  kind  of  a  man  I  am?" 

"Do  you  know  me?"  She  sat  upright,  gazing 
straight  before  her.  "You  don't  even  know  why  I 
brought  you." 

"Why?" 

"It  seems  strange  to  tell  you  now.  It  seems  like 
a  forgotten  sadness,  so  forgotten  that  it  might  be 
long  to  some  one  else.  And  yet  once  it  hurt.  I 
brought  you  that  I  might  win  back  my  husband. 
Don't  stiffen.  Look  up  and  see  how  I'm  smiling. 
I  was  never  his  in  your  sense.  I  was  an  image  in  a 
niche,  whose  hands  he  kissed.  I  was  a  mascot,  bring 
ing  him  good  luck.  The  woman  part  of  me  he  post 
poned  superstitiously  till  his  cause  should  be  won. 
It  will  never  be  won  now." 

"But  he  warned  you  before  he  married  you?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "He  made  sure  of  me.  At 
first  I  was  proud  to  be  included  in  his  sacrifice. 
Then  failure  made  it  all  absurd.  I  was  sorry  for 
him.  I  knew  only  one  way  to  comfort  him.  But 
because  he  had  failed,  he  became  the  more  deter 
mined  to  deny  himself.  Instead  of  comforting  him, 
I  became  his  tempter.  Then  Santa " 

Hindwood  pulled  himself  together  and  bent  for 
ward,  glowering  into  the  fire.  "I  can't  understand 
all  this  talk  of  sacrifice.  It  sounds  so  confoundedly 


unpractical.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  your  hus 
band's  idea  of  virtue  was  to  abstain  from  everything 
that  makes  life  worth  living.  He  didn't  profit  any 
one  by  abstaining.  All  he  did  was  to  narrow  him 
self.  If  he'd  wanted  to  be  an  ascetic,  why  couldn't 
he  have  done  the  thing  thoroughly  and  played  the 
game?  There  was  no  need  to  drag  you  into  it." 

"There  was  no  need,"  she  assented  quietly,  "but 
to  have  me  and  to -withstand  me  made  him  appear 
more  dedicated.  He  tantalized  himself  with  the 
thought  of  me  and  used  me  as  a  knife  with  which  to 
gash  himself.  I  was  a  part  of  the  road  to  Calvary 
he  was  treading  in  order  that  Russia  might  be  saved. 
It  gratified  his  pride  to  make  the  road  spectacular. 
Then,  when  we  were  in  exile  and  he  was  no  longer  a 
power,  Santa  came,  the  ruthless  idealist — his  very 
opposite." 

"Ruthless,  perhaps !  But  I  shouldn't  call  her  an 
idealist." 

"She  is — an  idealist  who,  to  gain  her  ends,  stoops 
to  any  baseness.  She's  an  avenging  angel,  beautiful 
and  sinister.  She's  one  of  the  few  revolutionaries 
who  knows  what  she  wants ;  because  she  knows,  she 
gets  it.  Varensky  never  knew.  His  head  was  in  the 
clouds.  He  lost  sight  of  his  purpose  in  a  mist  of 
words." 

"What  does  she  want?"  As  he  asked  the  ques 
tion,  he  glanced  back  at  her  where  she  gleamed  like 
a  phantom. 

"She  wants "  There  was  a  pause  during 

which  the  only  sound  was  the  struggle  of  the  distant 


162  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

surf.  "She  wants  to  make  men  pay  for  what  they 

do  to  children.  All  her  crimes She's  a  mother, 

robbed  of  her  young;  in  her  own  fierce  way,  she's 
taken  all  the  children  of  the  world  to  her  breast." 

"But  men  don't  do  anything." 

She  caught  his  tone  of  puzzlement.  "Oh  yes. 
Each  generation  commits  ferocious  sins  against  the 
coming  generation  that  can't  protect  itself.  It's 
children  who  pay  for  wars  and  every  social  injus 
tice.  Men  live  like  a  marauding  army,  pillaging  the 
land  between  birth  and  death.  They  pass  on  and 
leave  to  children  the  settlement  of  their  reckless 
debts.  Take  this  latest  war;  five  million  children  in 
Europe  alone  are  dying  of  starvation  at  this  mo 
ment.  Santa's  marked  down  the  men  who  are  re 
sponsible  for  their  suffering;  silently,  one  by  one, 
she  drugs  them  with  her  beauty  and  exacts  the 
penalty." 

"Prince  Rogovich?" 

"Probably.  He  was  raising  funds  for  a  new 
carnage." 

"But  where  do  I  come  in?  You  said  that  you'd 
brought  me  here  to  help  you  win  your  husband." 

"She's  in  love  with  Ivan.  To  be  loved  by  Santa  is 
like  witnessing  the  signature  to  one's  death  war 
rant.  Perhaps  she's  a  Bolshevik  agent — the  only 
people  to  whom  the  Bolsheviks  are  merciful  are  chil 
dren.  Perhaps  she's  really  in  love  with  him.  She 
plays  with  him  like  a  cat  with  a  mouse." 

"And  he?" 

"He's  indifferent,  as  he  is  to  every  woman.     Yet 


because  she's  treacherous  and  he  wants  to  die,  he 
takes  her  with  him  on  many  of  his  journeys.  I  hoped 
that  if  I  could  give  you  to  her,  she  might  spare  him. 
That  was  before  I  knew  you.  I  was  beside  myself 
with  suspense.  Ivan  has  been  gone  so  long;  to  do 
her  bidding  seemed  like  giving  him  his  last  chance 
of  life.  She's  in  danger  and  in  hiding.  You're  the 
one  person  who  can  prove  her  guilt.  I  thought  that 
if  I  put  you  in  her  power,  I'd  place  her  under  an 
obligation,  so  that " 

"And  now?" 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "God  for 
give  me,  it's  your  safety  that  counts — not  Ivan's." 

He  knelt  against  her,  plucking  her  hands  aside. 
"Look  at  me,"  he  commanded.  "So  long  as  your 
husband  lives,  his  safety  comes  first.  In  saving  me, 
you  might  betray  him.  If,  in  snatching  our  happi 
ness,  we  connived  at  his  death,  his  shadow  would 
always  stand  between  us.  I'm  still  your  prisoner; 
I've  not  taken  back  my  parole.  Here's  your  re 
volver."  He  drew  it  from  his  pocket  and  laid  it  on 
her  knees.  "Fulfill  your  bargain." 

"How?" 

"Take  me  to  Santa." 

"But  Ivan — already  he  may  be " 

"Until  we  know,  we'll  play  the  game  by  him." 
When  she  hesitated,  he  added,  "I  wouldn't  be  friends 
with  any  woman  who  couldn't  be  loyal." 

Her  hands  groped  after  the  revolver  and  found  it. 
Forcing  back  her  tears,  she  answered,  "Nor  would 
I  with  any  man." 


164  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

Rising  to  his  feet,  he  helped  her  to  rise.     "Take 
me  to  her." 


VIII 

As  they  stepped  into  the  garden,  the  first  restless 
ness  of  morning  was  in  the  air.  The  moon  had 
vanished.  Stars  were  going  out.  Along  the  low 
level  of  sea-line  dawn  cast  a  sickly  shadow.  It  was 
as  though  night  were  an  indigo  curtain  behind  which 
silver  forms  were  moving. 

She  led  the  way  across  the  lawn,  through  a  door 
in  the  wall,  and  out  on  the  short,  crisp  turf.  She 
had  thrown  a  cloak  about  her  and  pulled  the  hood 
over  her  head.  It  made  her  look  cowled  and  elfin. 
It  was  the  hour  when  everything  is  fantastic. 

He  had  an  oppressive  sense  of  unreality,  as 
though  this  were  all  a  dream  from  which  he  would 
shortly  rouse.  He  stood  aloof  from  recent  happen 
ings  and  surveyed  his  share  in  them  in  an  elderly, 
derisive  fashion.  What  were  all  these  promises  that 
he  had  been  exchanging  like  a  gallant?  He  tried 
to  recall  his  exact  words.  To  what  extent  had  he 
committed  himself?  He  had  crossed  the  Atlantic 
that  he  might  multiply  his  fortune — for  no  other 
reason.  He  was  neither  an  idealist  nor  a  sentimen 
talist;  he  had  realized  the  chance  that  a  bankrupt 
Europe  offered  and  had  come  to  take  advantage 
of  it.  What  would  these  derelicts  of  the  catastrophe 
think  of  him  if  they  guessed  his  real  purpose?  They 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     165 

were  willfully,  even  contemptibly,  unpractical;  yet 
their  perverted  unselfishness  troubled  his  conscience. 
To  spend  half  one's  years  in  exile,  like  the  Little 
Grandmother,  might  not  correct  injustice,  but  at. 
least  it  was  a  brave  protest.  To  plan  to  die,  like 
Varensky,  because  he  had  failed  to  rescue  humanity, 
was  a  counsel  of  despair,  but  it  had  its  gleam  of 
nobility.  To  assassinate,  like  Santa,  men  whose 
statesmanship  you  did  not  comprehend  was  the 
madness  of  a  zealot,  but  she  at  least  staked  her  life 
against  theirs.  Into  none  of  these  undertakings 
did  profit  enter.  It  was  disquieting  to  find  himself 
among  people  so  determined  to  convert  the  world  to 
altruism.  The  world  had  been  like  this  always;  it 
would  be  like  this  to  the  end.  If  they  were  once  to 
sense  who  he  was,  they  would  regard  him  as  their 
enemy.  He  was  walking  into  danger  with  his  eyes 
wide  open.  His  wisest  plan  would  be  to  sink  into  the 
shadows  and  take  the  first  train  back  to  sanity.  To 
do  that  he  would  have  to  leave  her. 

And  why  not?  What  did  he  owe  her?  What  was 
she  to  him  ?  She  belonged  to  another  man.  Waiting 
for  him  to  die,  or  to  make  sure  of  his  death,  might 
prove  a  tedious  business — a  humiliating  one,  most 
certainly.  And  yet  to  leave  her  now 

She  had  been  going  on  ahead — or  was  it  his  steps 
that  had  been  lagging?  She  had  halted.  As  he  came 
up,  he  felt  the  firm  surface  of  the  road  beneath  his 
tread. 

In  the  gloom  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "If 
you've  promised  too  much " 


166  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

That  determined  him.  "I  keep  my  promises,'*  he 
answered  shortly. 

Walking  side  by  side,  they  struggled  on  against 
the  mass  of  all-surrounding  vagueness.  It  seemed 
like  a  strong,  gray  tide  pressing  on  their  breasts, 
against  which  they  made  no  headway. 

What  was  to  be  the  upshot  of  it?  She  was  guid 
ing  him  to  Santa.  His  lips  twisted.  It  would  take 
more  than  Santa  to  inspire  him  with  terror.  Eng 
land  wasn't  the  jungle.  A  man  couldn't  disappear 
unnoticed.  Supposing  in  the  next  half -hour  Santa 
were  to  do  away  with  him,  what  would  she  gain  by  it? 
She  would  have  silenced  his  testimony  in  the  Rogo- 
vich  affair,  but  she  would  have  added  to  the  evi 
dence.  If  she  were  the  woman  she  was  painted,  she 
would  be  too  wary  to  do  that.  No,  she  would  not 
attempt  to  kill  him.  Then  what  was  her  urgency? 

Gradually  night  was  fading.  The  paleness  from 
the  sea  was  spreading.  It  drove  like  smoke,  in  bil 
lowy  banks  of  vapor,  creeping  low  along  the  ground. 
Live  things  were  waking.  In  separate,  plaintive 
warnings,  early-risen  birds  were  calling.  Across  the 
road  ahead  rabbits  scurried.  Against  the  formless 
vacancy  of  sky  the  rounded  shoulders  of  the  uplands 
became  discernible.  He  took  notice  of  their  direc 
tion.  She  was  leading  him  to  the  abandoned  camp. 

"Madame  Varensky." 

She  started.     "Not  that." 

"I'm  sorry.  It  was  the  only  name  I  knew  to  call 
you.  What  do  they  usually ?" 

"Anna." 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     167 

She  came  close  like  a  child  and  stood  gazing  up 
at  him. 

He  stooped  and  spoke  gently.  "You're  a  wild 
rose.  Once  more  let  me  look  into  your  eyes.  It's 
so  strange  that  you  should  care  for  me." 

"More  strange  to  me,"  she  said. 

He  placed  his  hands  on  her  shoulders.  "There's 
something  that  I  want  you  to  remember.  If  harm 
comes  to  either  of  us,  believe  always  that  it  was  only 
good  that  I  intended." 

"Whatever  you  brought  me  would  be  good,"  she 
murmured. 

"I  wish  it  might."  He  tumbled  the  hood  back  so 
that  he  could  see  her  hair.  "When  a  man  loves  a 
woman  who's  already  married,  it  doesn't  often  bring 
happiness.  It  wouldn't  be  right  that  it  should.  It 
isn't  our  fault  that  this  has  happened,  but  it  will 
be  if  we  misuse  it." 

"We  shan't  misuse  it." 

"There's  something  else."  He  groped  after  his 
words.  "Before  I  came  to  you,  I'd  been  foolish. 
There's  no  sense  in  regretting;  if  I  hadn't  been 
foolish,  we  shouldn't  have  met.  I  thought  that  I 
was  following  Santa ;  you  can  guess " 

She  inclined  her  head. 

"And  there's  one  thing  more.  If  your  husband 
comes  back,  promise  me  you'll  forget." 

She  strained  against  him,  so  their  lips  were  nearly 
touching.  "Never."  She  spoke  fiercely.  And 
again,  "Never.  Though  it's  years  and  you  forget." 

His  hands  slipped  from  her  shoulders,  lower  and 


168  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

lower,  till  his  arms  closed  about  her.  "Rest,"  he 
whispered,  "if  it's  only  for  a  moment,  poor,  tired 
little  bird." 

Through  the  ghostly  twilight  of  the  autumn  dawn 
they  entered  the  deserted  camp.  Before  one  of  the 
hutments  she  halted  and  tapped.  She  tapped  again. 
There  was  no  answer.  Cautiously  raising  the  latch, 
she  peered  into  the  room.  Beckoning  to  him,  she 
slipped  across  the  threshold. 


IX 


The  hut  was  empty.  The  floor  was  deep  in  dust. 
The  ceiling  was  meshed  with  cobwebs.  Nailed  across 
the  window,  just  as  the  soldiers  had  left  it,  a  dingy 
curtain  hung.  Striking  a  match,  he  held  it  above 
his  head.  At  the  far  end  he  made  out  signs  of  occu 
pancy.  On  a  shelf  was  a  loaf  of  bread  and  near  by 
a  pitcher.  In  a  corner,  spread  on  the  bare  boards 
for  a  bed,  was  a  wrap.  He  stooped;  it  was  Santa's 
cloak  of  sables. 

The  match  went  out.  He  turned.  "How  long 
has  she  been  here?'* 

"From  the  time  she  knew  she  was  suspected." 

"She  knew  she  was  suspected  at  Plymouth.  What 
made  her  motor  all  across  England  to  this?"  He 
glanced  round  with  pity  at  the  poverty-stricken 
forlornness. 

"She  wanted  to  be  near.'* 

"What?     It  would  be  better  to  tell  me.*' 


"To  the  road  out." 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  considered.  "So  there  are 
more  people  in  it,"  he  said  at  last,  "than  just  the 
few  that  I  have  met !  It's  an  organization.  I  might 
have  guessed.  There  are  the  people  who  helped  the 
little  old  lady  to  visit  me  undetected.  There  are  the 
people  who  entered  my  room  in  my  absence.  There's 
the  foreign  gentleman,  who  couldn't  speak  English, 
who  called  for  Santa  in  his  car.  But  if  this  hut  is 
on  the  road  out,  why  was  she  delaying?" 

"For  you,  perhaps." 

"But  she  was  risking  her  freedom  every  second. 
Why  for  me,  Anna?" 

Before  he  had  given  her  time  to  answer,  his  mind 
had  leaped  to  a  new  conjecture.  "What  if  she's 
captured?" 

Suddenly  the  tragedy  of  this  strange  woman, 
temple-dancer,  revolutionary,  avenger  of  children, 
became  vivid.  Her  pain  stung  him  as  though  he 
had  suffered  it  himself.  He  lived  again  the  hunted 
hours  that  must  have  been  hers  while  she  had  listened 
in  this  dusty  room.  He  remembered  her  fascination, 
the  grayness  of  her  eyes,  the  fastidiousness  of  her 
dress.  What  a  contrast  to  these  surroundings ! 
How  often  she  must  have  crouched  by  that  window, 
watching  from  behind  the  shabby  curtain  for  the 
approach  of  the  pursuer!  The  men  she  had  killed 
did  not  matter.  Probably  they  had  deserved  their 
death.  His  pity  was  reserved  for  her.  She  had  been 
the  pampered  darling  of  princes.  Her  whims  had 
been  commands  to  lovers  who  themselves  were  rulers. 


170  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

No  present  had  been  too  costly  to  purchase  the 
ecstasy  of  her  complaisance.  Her  body  had  been  a 
jewel,  guarded,  coveted,  irrepeatable  in  its  beauty. 
Crimes  had  been  committed  for  its  possession.  And 
this  was  her  end!  He  heard  in  memory  the  hoarse 
pleading  of  her  voice,  trying  vainly  to  convince  him 
that  love  could  make  her  good. 

The  woman  at  his  side  was  speaking.  "We  heard 
no  sound.  She  was  armed.  If  they'd  tried  to  take 
her,  she'd  have  defended  herself." 

His  thoughts  came  back.  "Last  night.  Yes.  If 
they'd  taken  her  in  the  garden.  But  they  might  have 
known  she  would  be  armed.  Perhaps  they  followed 
her.  If  they  traced  her  to  this  hut,  they  might  have 
waited  till  she  was  sleeping " 

She  shook  her  head.  "It  isn't  that.  She's  grown 
tired  of  delaying.  She's  gone  by  the  road  out." 

He  frowned.  "That's  the  second  time  you've  used 
the  phrase.  Can't  you  tell  me  plainly?" 

"If  it's  not  too  late,  I'll  show  you." 

She  darted  out  of  the  hut.  When  he  joined  her 
in  the  open,  she  was  waiting  impatiently  to  secure 
the  door  behind  him.  The  moment  it  was  fastened, 
she  set  off  at  a  run.  She  raced  like  a  boy,  with  none 
of  a  woman's  awkwardness.  With  an  occasional 
backward  glance,  up  the  long  deserted  avenue  of  the 
camp  she  fled.  At  first  he  was  content  to  follow  for 
the  pleasure  he  had  in  watching  her.  She  was  so 
swift  and  young.  She  was  like  a  deer  in  her  slender- 
ness.  Sudden  eagerness  had  transformed  her.  The 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     171 

hood  had  slipped  back  to  her  shoulders ;  the  wind 
of  her  going  fluttered  in  her  hair. 

Outside  the  camp  she  bore  to  the  left  in  a  direc 
tion  leading  further  afield.  Over  gorse  and  bracken 
dew  had  flung  a  silver  net.  The  turf  was  a  tapestry 
sewn  with  jewels.  Larks  were  springing  up.  The 
keen  fragrance  of  seaweed  mingled  with  the  honeyed 
perfumes  of  the  land. 

He  caught  up  with  her.     "Why?"  he  panted. 

She  had  no  breath  to  waste  in  words.  Turning  on 
him  a  flushed  and  laughing  face,  she  pointed  ahead. 

Just  short  of  the  cliff-edge,  where  the  sheer  drop 
began,  she  sank  to  her  knees,  clasping  her  breast. 
While  she  recovered,  he  gazed  about  him.  He  dis 
covered  no  sign  of  the  thing  she  was  pursuing.  The 
sea  was  blanketed  in  mist.  Above  the  blurred  hori 
zon,  the  red  eye  of  the  sun  stared  at  him.  From  the 
foot  of  the  cliff  came  the  lapping  of  waves.  No 
other  sound. 

She  had  risen.  He  was  about  to  speak.  She 
pressed  a  finger  to  her  lips.  Taking  him  by  the 
hand,  she  led  him  to  the  edge. 

At  first,  as  he  gazed  down,  he  saw  only  the  crum 
bling  face  of  the  chalk.  Then  he  made  out  a  wind 
ing  path  descending;  it  seemed  no  broader  than  a 
track  that  a  goat  might  follow. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Listen." 

She  dragged  excitedly  on  his  arm. 

Distinctly,  above  the  lapping  of  waves,  he  heard 
the  click  of  oars  working  in  oar-locks.  Beneath  the 


172  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

fog  a  vessel  was  hiding.  It  had  dropped  a  boat 
which  was  pulling  toward  the  land. 

"The  road  out,"  she  whispered. 

"But  Santa " 

She  nodded.  "It's  not  so  difficult  as  it  looks.  It 
was  used  by  smugglers.  We  use  it — 

She  broke  off.  Oars  were  being  shipped.  The 
prow  grounded.  There  was  a  muttering  of  men's 
voices.  Some  sort  of  discussion.  A  pause.  Then 
oars  were  put  out  again.  The  rowing  recommenced, 
growing  fainter  and  fainter. 


"Gone!" 

She  pressed  against  him  in  her  gladness. 

Seeing  the  relief  in  her  eyes,  he  questioned,  "What 
does  this  mean  to  you,  Anna?" 

"Safety." 

"Anything  else?" 

"Freedom,  perhaps." 

"You  mean  you  think  that  Santa  had  received 
word  of  your  husband  and  that  that  was  why ?" 

"I  don't  want  to  think  or  mean;  I  only  want  to 
feel.  It's  as  though  I'd  been  living  in  a  prison  and 
the  door  had  been  flung  wide.  I  wasn't  one  of  them. 
They  condemned  me.  In  their  hearts  they  despised 
me.  I  was  too  weak.  I  couldn't  bear  their  cross." 
She  clenched  her  hands  against  her  cheeks  till  the 
knuckles  showed  white.  "What's  the  good  of  being 


HE  BECOMES  PART  OF  THE  GAME     175" 

crucified?  It's  so  much  better  to  live  and  be  glad 
for  people." 

"And  Santa,"  he  asked,  "where  she's  going,  what 
will  happen  to  her?" 

She  raised  her  face.  "Pain.  She'll  be  hounded 
and  hunted.  She's  getting  too  well  known.  Prince 
Rogovich  thought  he  recognized  her.  She'll  be  al 
ways  escaping,  rushing  from  hiding  to  hiding,  till 
one  day —  To  have  been  loved  so  much  and  to  be 
pushed  out  of  life " 

Behind  the  mist  they  heard  the  creak  of  ropes 
running  over  pulleys.  A  gasoline  engine  was  started. 
For  an  instant  the  shadow  of  a  trawler  loomed 
through  the  wall  of  opaqueness.  The  tiller  was 
thrust  over.  She  vanished.  They  stood  very  silently, 
listening  and  watching.  In  imagination  Hindwood 
followed  the  vessel's  course.  It  was  not  of  the  vessel 
he  was  thinking,  but  of  the  woman  on  board  her. 
"To  have  been  loved  so  much  and  to  be  pushed  out 

of  life "  If  he  had  had  the  chance,  what  could 

he  have  done  for  her?  She  had  fascinated  him; 
but  he  had  not  loved  her.  She  was  past  reclaiming. 
Love  with  a  woman  of  her  kind  would  have  meant 
passion — nothing  more.  A  fierce  flame,  self-consum 
ing!  A  slow  degrading  of  an  emotion  that  was  fine! 
Yet  he  was  filled  with  pity  and  unreasoning  remorse. 
Some  day  her  enemies  would  overtake  her — good, 
respectable  men  like  Major  Cleasby;  the  good  men 
who  by  the  injustice  of  their  prejudices  had  made 
her  what  she  was. 

"It's  a  chapter  ended,"  he  said  quietly. 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 

Slipping  his  arm  through  hers,  as  though  she  al 
ready  belonged  to  him,  he  was  turning  inland  toward 
the  peace  of  the  rolling  country,  when  his  step  was 
arrested.  He  caught  the  sound  of  labored  breathing 
and  the  rattle  of  sliding  chalk.  Hands  groped  above 
the  edge  of  the  cliff,  searching  for  a  holding.  They 
were  followed  by  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  man 
with  a  face  intensely  white,  in  which  a  pair  of  pale 
green  eyes  smoldered.  Lower  down  and  out  of  sight 
a  woman  spoke.  The  voice  was  Santa's. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTH 

THE     GREEN     EYES     CAST    A     SPELL 


TTINDWOOD  stood  rooted  to  the  ground.  He 
•*•  -*•  had  thrust  Anna  behind  him.  She  was  tugging 
at  his  hand  with  the  tenacity  of  terror.  He  scarcely 
dared  breathe  while  he  watched  the  green-eyed  man 
dragging  himself  inch  by  inch  to  safety.  To  go  to 
his  assistance  might  cause  his  death.  Any  move  that 
startled  him  might  fling  him  back  over  the  precipice. 
In  falling  he  would  sweep  away  the  unseen  woman 
who  must  be  clinging  to  the  face  of  the  cliff  below 
him. 

To  Hindwood  it  seemed  that  he  was  present  at 
a  fantastic  rehearsal  of  the  Day  of  Resurrection. 
When  the  last  trumpet  blew,  it  would  probably 
be  precisely  in  some  such  fashion  that  the  sea  would 
give  up  its  dead.  It  would  happen  about  sunrise, 
when  mankind  was  still  abed.  It  would  commence 
very  quietly,  when  clouds  were  hanging  low  and  the 
first  of  the  barnyard  cocks  were  crowing.  Without 
warning,  graves  would  open,  and  all  the  tired  people, 
who  had  been  so  long  resting,  would  begin  to  stir. 
Like  the  sound  of  falling  rain,  they  would  patter 
through  the  drowsing  country,  searching  for  their 

175 


176  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

ancient  dwellings.  At  first  they  would  walk  alone, 
then  in  groups,  later  in  crowds.  By  the  time  the 
living  looked  out  of  their  windows  there  would  be 
no  standing  room  on  earth.  Across  seas  and  oceans 
the  drowned  would  come  swimming.  They  would 
wade  through  waves  and  clamber  up  cliffs,  just  as 
this  man  was  doing. 

The  vision  became  so  probable  that  Hindwood 
glanced  behind  him  to  make  sure  that  it  was  not 
happening.  In  a  shimmering  expanse  of  dew  and 
autumn  coloring  lay  the  sweet,  green  landscape  of 
living  men,  the  kindly  hedgerows,  the  sheltering  val 
leys,  the  friendly  villages.  Everything  was  gentle 
and  unaltered.  It  was  only  at  this  barrier,  which 
the  green-eyed  stranger  was  struggling  to  surmount, 
that  the  tranquillity  ended.  At  its  brink  eternity 
commenced,  a  pulsating  oblivion  of  mist  and  grayness 
across  which  the  rising  sun  peered  curiously. 

The  stranger  was  too  occupied  with  his  danger  to 
be  aware  that  he  was  being  observed.  Clutching  at 
tufts  and  digging  with  his  fingers,  he  was  easing 
himself  out  of  the  abyss.  Little  by  little  he  was 
gaining  ground  till  at  last,  pulling  his  knees  clear 
of  the  edge,  he  sprawled  exhausted  on  the  turf.  But 
it  was  only  for  a  moment.  Twisting  about,  still 
lying  flat,  he  reached  down  to  his  companion.  As 
she  appeared,  he  retreated,  steadying  her  efforts  and 
dragging  her  with  him.  Side  by  side  they  collapsed, 
breathing  heavily  and  staring  in  dazed  defiance  at 
the  death  they  had  avoided. 

Hindwood  made  a  step  to  approach  them.     He 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  177 

found  himself  tethered.  Anna  was  gazing  up  at  him, 
silently  imploring.  Her  hair  seemed  a  mass  of  solid 
gold,  weighing  her  down.  The  blue  veins  in  her 
temples  stood  out  beneath  her  fairness.  Her  throat 
was  milk-white  and  stretched  back.  Her  lips  were 
parted,  revealing  the  coral  of  her  mouth.  It  was  as 
though  she  had  been  caught  from  behind  by  an  assail 
ant  and  brutally  jerked  back.  With  little  endearing 
motions  she  caressed  Hindwood's  hand.  He  tried 
to  fathom  her  necessity ;  in  the  presence  of  her  weak 
ness  there  was  nothing  that  he  would  not  have 
granted. 

The  man  with  the  green  eyes  had  recovered.  In 
the  act  of  rising  he  had  caught  sight  of  them.  His 
jaw  had  dropped  open.  If  it  was  possible,  his  com 
plexion  had  gone  a  shade  whiter.  His  expression 
bore  testimony  to  the  medley  of  his  emotions,  the 
chief  of  which  was  astonishment.  He  made  an  oddly 
pathetic  figure,  with  his  scratched  hands  and  torn 
clothing,  crouching  in  that  hunted  attitude.  He  had 
lost  his  hat  in  the  ascent.  His  brown  hair  was 
lank  with  perspiration.  He  was  a  lean  man  and 
graceful  as  a  greyhound.  Even  in  his  present  un 
gainly  posture  there  was  a  hint  of  something  swift 
and  gallant  in  his  bearing.  One  forgot  that  he  was 
a  vagabond  who  had  eluded  formalities  and  completed 
an  illegal  landing ;  he  looked  more  like  a  champion  un 
horsed  in  a  tourney.  His  brow  was  wide  and  noble, 
but  the  top  of  his  head  was  shaped  like  a  deformity 
and  rose  into  a  point  like  a  dunce's  cap.  His  eyes 
were  well-spaced  and  piercing;  they  penetrated  with 


178  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

a  sense  of  power.  His  mouth  was  thin-lipped  and 
sensitive — too  sensitive  for  a  man's.  His  face  was 
narrow  and  smooth  as  a  girl's.  He  had  a  haggard 
appearance  of  perpetual  suffering,  which  the  extreme 
ness  of  his  pallor  served  to  enhance.  He  was  in 
definably  tragic.  He  might  have  sat  equally  well  for 
a  portrait  of  Lucifer  or  of  Harlequin  overtaken  by 
his  folly. 

Very  wearily  he  lifted  himself  from  the  ground  and 
stumbled  toward  them.  As  he  did  so,  Santa  uttered 
a  nervous  cry  and  turned — after  which  she  watched 
broodingly  what  happened. 

Paying  no  attention  to  Hindwood,  the  man  made 
straight  for  Anna.  Bending  over  her  humbly,  he 
whispered  unintelligible  words.  Her  terror  left  her. 
Making  no  sound,  she  raised  to  him  eyes  eloquent 
with  compassion. 

"What  did  he  say?"  Hindwood  questioned. 

She  was  prepared  to  reply,  when  the  stranger 
stayed  her  with  a  gesture.  "I  was  apologizing  in 
Russian  for  having  returned." 

Hindwood  glanced  at  the  ragged  edge  of  the  cliff 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "An  apology's  scarcely 
necessary.  You're  to  be  congratulated.  You  seem 
to  have  recognized  this  lady.  Who  are  you  ?" 

The  stranger  drew  himself  erect.  A  grim  smile 
played  about  his  mouth.  "Ivan  Varensky,  at  your 
service." 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL   179 


n 


Hindwood  stared  at  him  with  a  frown.  He  was 
contrasting  this  Ivan  Varensky  with  the  leader  of 
men  whose  deeds  of  three  years  ago  had  so  deeply 
stirred  him.  One  picture  stood  out  ineffaceably.  It 
was  of  a  sea  of  panic-stricken  soldiers,  patriotism 
forgotten,  arms  flung  away,  in  wild  retreat,  and  of 
Ivan  Varensky  driving  forward  alone,  as  though  he, 
by  his  single  courage,  could  turn  back  the  enemy. 
And  this  was  the  man — the  white  knight  of  Russia, 
the  scape-goat,  the  magician  of  words !  Had  he  met 
him  three  years  ago,  he  would  have  knelt  to  him. 
Now  all  he  could  do  was  to  frown. 

It  was  necessary  to  say  something.  He  spoke 
gruffly.  "You've  chosen  an  odd  method  of  returning. 
We  had  news  you  were  dead." 

"I  was,"  the  green  eyes  narrowed,  "nearly.  I'm 
always  nearly  dying.  Isn't  that  so,  Anna?  And 
then  I  come  back.  This  last  time,  as  you  observed, 
I  had  the  discourtesy  to  forget.  I  was  thinking  of 
Santa.  Actually  I  struggled  to  survive.  Believe 
me,  that's  unlike  me." 

The  forbearance  of  his  manner  was  rebuking. 
Making  an  effort  to  be  genial,  Hindwood  held  out 
his  hand.  "It's  a  strange  way  to  meet.  I've  long 
been  your  admirer.  It  was  a  close  call — as  close  as  a 
man  could  have." 

Varensky  winced  as  the  powerful  grip  closed  about 


180  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

his  fingers.  They  were  long  and  pointed,  more  like  a 
woman's  than  a  man's.  "A  close  call!"  He  smiled. 
"You're  American?  It  wasn't — not  for  me.  I  could 
tell  you —  But  perhaps  one  day,  when  I've  become 
past  history,  Anna  will  do  that." 

As  he  mentioned  his  wife,  he  gave  her  a  look  at 
once  tender  and  furtive — a  look  which  acknowledged 
without  rancor  the  truth  of  the  situation.  She 
started  forward,  but  his  eyes  held  her.  She  stopped 
half-way. 

"However  you  return,"  she  said  chokingly,  "and 
however  often,  you  know  that  I'm  glad.  It's  the 
certainty  that  I  shall  lose  you — that  however  often 
you  return  I  shall  never  have  you — ' 

She  bowed  her  head.  From  the  edge  of  the  cliff, 
without  a  trace  of  emotion,  the  other  woman  watched 
her. 

Tilting  her  face  with  his  bruised  fingers,  Varensky 
regarded  her  earnestly.  "As  if  I  wasn't  aware  of 
that!"  And  then,  "Let's  be  going." 

Side  by  side,  but  always  separate,  they  moved 
across  the  downs.  There  was  no  backward  glance. 
Hindwood  followed  them  with  his  eyes  till  they  sank 
into  a  hollow.  The  last  he  saw  was  the  raw  gold  of 
her  hair  and  the  conical  top  of  his  pointed  head, 
growing  more  distant  above  the  bracken. 

Ill 

"And  I,  too,  have  to  apologize.  I  failed  to  keep 
my  appointment." 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  181 

He  swung  round  at  the  mockingly  spoken  words, 
to  find  that  Santa  had  stolen  up  behind  him.  Until 
now  he  had  had  no  time  to  notice  her.  His  anger 
was  so  intense  that  it  held  him  silent.  After  all  that 
she  had  done  and  had  intended  to  do  to  him,  she  had 
the  effrontery  to  jest!  Did  she  think  that  he  was  as 
much  her  dupe  as  the  fool  who  had  died  for  her  in 
the  woods  of  Vincennes? 

But  his  anger  was  short-lived  and  left  him  sternly 
cold.  She  was  changed.  Her  fastidious  elegance 
was  a  thing  of  the  past.  She  was  commonly  attired 
as  any  fisher-girl.  Her  cheap  blouse  was  rent  at  the 
neck;  its  sleeves  were  stained  and  in  tatters.  Her 
rough  skirt  had  been  nearly  trodden  off.  She  was 
torn  and  disheveled.  She  had  suffered  even  more 
from  her  adventure  than  had  Varensky.  Her  hat  lay 
crushed  at  her  feet  in  the  grass.  With  her  wounded 
hands  she  was  doing  her  best  to  twine  the  thick  coils 
of  her  hair  into  place.  She  stood  confessed  for 
what  she  was,  a  fugitive  from  justice.  The  wildness 
of  the  landscape  made  a  fitting  setting.  She  looked 
startlingly  untamed.  She  might  have  passed  for  a 
peasant  Ophelia,  except  that  her  gray  eyes  were 
calm  and  her  manner  nonchalant. 

"There  are  a  good  many  things,  besides  missing 
your  appointment,  for  which  you  have  to  apologize." 

"I  can  explain — " 

He  cut  her  short.  "Between  you  and  me  no  ex 
planations  are  necessary.'* 

She  jerked  back  her  head,  flattening  her  hands 


182  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

against  her  sides  like  a  soldier  standing  at  attention. 
"Why  not?" 

He  took  his  time  to  answer.  "Because  you're 
nothing  to  me." 

Her  face  went  white,  then  flamed  scarlet,  as 
though  he  had  struck  her  with  his  open  palm. 
"Nothing  to  you!"  She  spoke  slowly.  "I,  Santa 
Gorlof ,  am  nothing  to  you !  You're  the  first  man  to 
whom  I  ever  offered  my  heart.  I  would  lie  down  in 
the  mud  that  you  might  walk  over  me.  I'd  let  you 
beat  me  like  a  dog  if  I  might  only  follow  you.  I'd 
starve  that  you  might  be  fed,  go  thirsty  that  you 
might  drink,  break  my  body  that  you  might  not 
suffer.  I  would  die  if  it  would  give  you  pleasure." 
Seeing  that  her  rhetoric  was  having  no  effect,  she 
sank  her  voice.  "When  I  could  have  escaped,  I 
waited  for  you.  I  risked  my  freedom  for  one  last 
sight  of  you."  She  clutched  at  her  breast,  choking 
down  a  sob.  "And  you  tell  me  that  I'm  nothing 
to  you!" 

He  was  determined  to  remain  unmoved  by  her  emo 
tion.  Regarding  her  stonily,  he  asked :  "What  right 
had  you  to  believe  that  you  were  anything  to  me?" 

She  laughed  forlornly.     "No  right  at  all." 

"If  I  had  ever  cared  for  you,"  he  continued, 
"in  your  present  predicament  it  would  all  be  ended." 

She  raised  her  brows  contemptuously.  "Of 
course." 

"You  see,  I've  found  out  the  sort  of  woman  you 
are." 

"What   sort?" 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  183 

"Need  I  recall?" 

He  turned  away,  searching  hollows  and  clumps 
of  bushes  for  bobbing  heads  of  watchers.  Her  cap 
tors  might  be  closing  in  on  her.  Her  indifference  to 
her  danger  was  disconcerting.  With  eyes  still  fixed 
on  the  distant  landscape,  he  revealed  his  thoughts. 

"Your  talk  of  love  is  paltry.  It's  tragic  farce. 
You  have  a  husband.  You're  liable  to  be  jailed  at 
any  moment." 

He  expected  she  would  retort.  When  she  main 
tained  silence,  he  glanced  down  at  his  feet,  ashamed 
of  what  he  felt  himself  compelled  to  tell  her. 

"Love !  If  it  were  true,  and  if  your  affection  were 
desired,  you  have  no  love  to  offer.  Nothing  that  is 
you  is  yours.  Your  hours  are  numbered.  Your 
body  and  your  life  are  forfeit.  The  man  who  is  your 
husband  is  leading  the  hue-and-cry  against  you.  If 
you  think  you  can  persuade  me  to  go  to  the  scaffold 
for  you,  rid  yourself  of  the  thought.  There'll  be  no 
repetition  of  the  woods  of  Vincennes.  The  victim  In 
that  case  was  your  lover;  I'm  not."  He  met  her 
eyes.  "You  never  deceived  me  for  a  second.  From 
the  moment  we  left  the  Ryndam,  I  knew  who  it  was 
had  pushed  Prince  Rogovich  overboard." 

"If  you  knew,"  she  asked  quietly,  "why  didn't 
you  have  me  arrested?" 

"It  was  none  of  my  business." 

"But  you  were  kind  after  we'd  landed.  At  the, 
hotel  you  arranged  to  breakfast  with  me." 

"I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  believe  you  were 
guilty." 


184  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

"And  yet,  after  you  had  believed,  you  followed 
me  to  Seafold." 

"The  detective  instinct."  He  spoke  testily.  "Mor 
bid  curiosity." 

"No."  She  said  it  wistfully.  Her  face  softened. 
"You  followed  me  because,  even  against  your  will, 
you  still  cared  for  me.  You  pitied  me.  You  were 
chivalrous.  You  refused  to  condemn  me  unheard. 
You  hoped  there  was  some  mistake.  You  followed 
me  to  make  sure." 

"And  you've  made  me  sure."  He  rapped  out  the 
words.  "Since  you  insist  on  the  truth,  I  came  to 
Seafold  hoping  to  find  you  innocent.  If  I  had  I 
should  have  fought  for  you.  Whereas — " 

"Whereas?"  she  prompted  nervously. 

"I  found  you'd  done  to  me  what  you've  done  to 
every  other  man  who  ever  befriended  you — betrayed 
me  and  had  me  lured  into  an  ambush  where,  for  all  I 
know,  you'd  given  orders  for  me  to  be  shot." 

"But  you  weren't." 

"No  thanks  to  you.  Your  husband  was  ahead 
of  you,  hidden  in  the  bushes,  waiting  for  you.  If 
we  hadn't  given  the  signal  that  warned  you — " 

"But  you  gave  it."  She  spoke  triumphantly. 
"I'd  trapped  you,  and  yet  you  didn't  want  me  to  be 
caught.  To  have  shown  generosity  at  a  moment  when 
you  thought  that  I  was  threatening  your  life,  you 
must  still  have  been  fond  of  me." 

"Thought !"  He  drew  back  from  her,  revolted  by 
her  insincerity.  "You  left  no  room  for  thought. 
You  were  diabolically  explicit.  You  knew  that  I 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  185 

could  prove  your  guilt.  You  meant  to  kill  me  in 
order  that  I  might  be  silenced." 

Her  eyes  filled.  She  stretched  out  her  arms  be 
seechingly.  They  fell  hopelessly  as  he  retreated 
from  her. 

"Don't  misjudge  me,"  she  implored.  "I'm  a 
woman  who's  finished.  A  woman,  as  you  reminded 
me,  whose  hours  are  numbered — my  body  and  my  life 
are  forfeit.  It's  true  what  you  said:  nothing  that 
I  am  belongs  to  me.  If  you  like  to  put  it  that  way, 
I'm  a  woman  who  has  nothing  to  offer.  And  yet  I 
love  you — the  first  man  with  whom  I  was  ever  in  love, 
now  when  it's  too  late.  You  don't  believe  me; 
you're  thinking  of  the  many  others.  Let  it  pass.  I 
had  to  see  you  once  more.  I  couldn't  come  to  you; 
you  were  surrounded  by  my  enemies.  To  persuade 
you  to  come  to  me,  I  had  to  trick  you.  Until  it  was 
safe  to  visit  you,  I  had  to  have  you  held  by  force.  I 
compelled  Anna,  Madame  Varensky  to — 

He  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "Enough!  I'm 
wondering  to  how  many  men  you've  made  that  speech 
before.  I've  heard  all  about  your  appeals  to  chiv 
alry.  If  you  were  a  man —  Unfortunately  you're 
not,  so  I  have  a  sentimental  compunction  about  aban 
doning  you.  What  are  your  plans  ?  When  I  saw  the 
ship  I  hoped  you  had  escaped." 

"I  had." 

"And  you  came  back !    Why  ?" 

"Varensky  was  landing  from  the  boat  that  had 
been  sent  to  take  me  off."  She  was  laying  claim  to 


186  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

some  obscure  nobility,  making  a  final  bid  for  his 
admiration. 

"The  mist's  clearing,"  he  said  brusquely.  "In  an 
other  half-hour  you'll  be  visible  for  miles.  If  you're 
seen  here,  you'll  be  taken." 

"I  won't." 

"You  think  not?" 

She  smiled  languidly.  It  was  her  arch,  mysterious 
way  of  smiling  that  had  first  attracted  him.  "Why 
don't  you  go?"  she  whispered  in  her  hoarse,  parched 
voice.  "You  loathe  and  despise  me.  You  grudge 
me  every  moment  we're  together.  I've  done  what  was 
right ;  I'm  willing  to  pay  the  penalty.  I've  earned  a 
rest.  I'm  tired — you  can't  guess  how  tired." 

Now  that  she  wanted  him  to  go,  he  gazed  at  her 
with  a  new  interest.  If  the  trackers  were  hot  upon 
his  trail,  what  would  be  his  sensations?  Would  he 
be  able  to  be  courteous  and  to  talk  calmly?  What 
ever  might  be  her  crimes,  she  had  courage.  What  if 
it  were  true  that  by  some  tortuous  process  of  reason 
ing  she  did  actually  believe  she  had  done  right  ?  And 
what  if  it  were  true  that  she  had  intended  him  no 
harm,  but  had  only  attempted  to  win  him  by  violence? 
The  uneasy  doubt  took  shape  in  his  mind  that  he 
might  have  misjudged  her.  It  would  be  a  splendid 
memory  to  have,  if  she  were  wrongly  executed — this 
gleaming  morning,  the  larks  singing,  the  blue-patched 
sky,  the  valiant  sun,  the  rosy-tinted  dew,  and  him 
self  fleeing  from  the  f orlornness  of  a  woman !  Every 
man's  hand  was  against  her.  She  believed  she  had 
done  right. 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL   187 

He  regarded  her  less  coldly.  She  was  perfect  as 
on  the  day  when  all  Europe  had  gone  wild  over  her. 
And  this  masterpiece  of  loveliness,  which  had  been 
known  as  Santa  Gorlof ,  was  doomed  to  be  destroyed ! 

"Go."  She  stamped  her  foot  hysterically.  "You 
torture  me." 

He  faced  her  obstinately.  "What  are  you  pro 
posing?  You've  some  plan  in  mind.  Madame  Varen- 
sky  called  this  'the  road  out.'  Is  it  possible  for  you 
to  take  it?" 

"I  know  a  shorter  route." 

"You're  certain?" 

"Please  leave  me.  You  must  leave  me.  I'm  a 
woman  who  has  nothing  to  offer.  You're  a  man  who 
has  everything  to  lose." 

He  squared  his  lips.  "I  don't  like  the  sound  of 
this  shorter  route.  I  want  to  know  more  about  it." 

As  he  made  a  step  to.  ard  her,  she  dodged  and 
broke  from  him,  dashing  toward  the  cliff.  On  the 
very  edge  he  caught  her.  She  struggled  dangerously, 
but  he  stumbled  back  with  her  crushed  against  him. 

"You  little  fool!" 

She  lay  quiet,  her  face  pressed  against  his  cheek. 
Then  she  fell  to  sobbing. 

"What  difference  would  it  make?  Why  wouldn't 
you  let  me  do  it?" 

IV 

Why  wouldn't  he?  It  was  the  question  he  himself 
was  asking.  He  had  done  nothing  humane  in  prevent- 


188  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

ing  her.  He  had  merely  spared  his  own  feelings.  If 
she  had  succeeded,  he  would  have  found  himself 
in  an  ugly  situation.  He  would  have  been  suspected 
of  a  crime  similar  to  hers.  There  would  have  been 
no  evidence  to  hang  him,  but  he  could  never  have  es 
tablished  his  innocence.  He  looked  down  at  the 
woman  shuddering  in  his  arms,  for  all  the  world  as 
though  he  were  her  lover.  He  had  been  within  an 
ace  of  inheriting  her  isolation. 

"I  didn't  let  you  do  it— "  He  hesitated.  Then  he 
took  the  plunge.  "Because  I  intend  to  save  you." 

She  stirred.  She  glanced  up  at  him.  As  her  eyes 
met  his,  their  expression  of  wonder  gave  way  to  one 
of  gratitude.  She  strove  to  reach  his  lips,  but  he 
restrained  her. 

"Promise  me  you'll  live." 

"If  you'll  help  me." 

How  much  she  implied  jy  "help  me,"  he  did  not 
stop  to  question. 

"We've  no  time  to  lose."  He  spoke  hurriedly. 
"Where's  the  safest  place  of  hiding?" 

"My  old  one.    A  hut— " 

"I  know,"  he  interrupted.  "I'll  go  ahead  to  make 
sure  the  way  is  clear;  you  follow  at  a  distance. 
Keep  me  in  sight.  If  I  look  back,  take  cover." 

Without  more  ado,  he  turned  away,  retracing  his 
steps  to  the  camp. 

He  attempted  to  walk  jauntily,  like  a  nature-lover 
who  had  risen  early  to  enjoy  the  first  freshness  of 
the  morning.  Here  and  there  he  stooped  to  pluck  a 
blackberry.  He  pulled  a  sprig  of  heather  for  his 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL    189 

lapel.  He  flattered  himself  that,  if  he  were  being 
watched,  his  conduct  was  artistically  normal. 

For  all  his  display  of  carelessness,  he  advanced 
warily.  There  was  nothing  in  the  billowy  expanse  of 
greenness  that  escaped  him.  Somewhere  within  a 
radius  of  four  miles  the  Major  was  waiting  to  make 
his  pounce.  He  might  be  crouched  in  the  next  patch 
of  bracken.  He  might  be  lying  behind  the  nearest 
mound.  The  dapper,  gallant-appearing  old  gentle 
man,  who  bore  such  a  striking  resemblance  to  Lord 
Roberts,  assumed  the  terror  of  nemesis  in  his  imagin 
ation.  He  seemed  everywhere  and  nowhere.  He 
would  pop  up,  suave  and  neatly  bespatted,  at  the 
moment  when  he  was  least  expected. 

He  gazed  straight  before  him,  not  daring  to  look 
back,  but  he  never  lost  consciousness  of  the  fateful 
woman  following  him  stealthily  as  a  shadow.  And 
always  there  was  the  memory  of  the  other  woman 
with  the  gentle  eyes  and  shining  hair. 

He  reached  the  camp.  It  looked  lonely  as  a  grave 
yard.  Rows  of  hutments,  bleached  to  a  bluish  white 
ness,  gleamed  in  the  morning  sunshine.  The  downs 
curled  above  it  like  an  emerald  wave  on  the  point  of 
breaking. 

Passing  along  the  bare  avenue  of  silent  dwellings 
he  pushed  open  the  door  of  Santa's  place  of  refuge. 
Tiptoeing  across  the  dusty  floor,  he  knelt  by  the 
window,  peering  out. 

Seconds  ticked  into  minutes.  Ten  minutes  elapsed, 
twenty,  half  an  hour.  There  was  no  sign  of  life.  He 
strove  to  calm  his  fears.  If  she  had  been  caught, 


190  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

it  simplified  matters.  But  such  arguments  failed  to 
pacify  him.  He  pictured  her  as  he  had  seen  her 
on  the  Ryndam — a  splendid  animal,  proud,  fastidi 
ous,  mildly  contemptuous;  and  then  as  he  had  seen 
her  that  morning,  broken,  desperate,  defiant. 

Out  there  in  the  happy  sunshine  they  might  be 
carrying  her  away.  They  would  drag  her  through 
the  public  streets  as  a  criminal.  They  would  lock 
her  in  a  cell.  They  would  hale  her  to  a  court  to  be 
gaped  at.  They  would  paw  over  her  private  life. 
They  would  pry  into  the  intimacies  of  her  love- 
affairs.  Nothing  that  was  hers  would  be  sacred. 
Then,  when  the  sport  grew  tedious,  an  old  man, 
turned  moralist  by  reason  of  decrepitude,  would  don 
a  black  cap  and  intrust  her  to  the  mercy  of 
Almighty  God. 

He  staged  her  arrest  as  though  he  had  seen  it 
happen.  He  had  strolled  straight  through  her  pur 
suers'  ambush.  They  had  let  him  pass.  Directly 
she  had  appeared,  they  had  risen  out  of  the  brush. 
Twisting  her  arms  behind  her,  they  had  snapped 
handcuifs  on  her  slender  wrists.  She  had  struggled, 
sinking  to  the  ground,  faint  with  terror.  They  had 
jerked  her  to  her  feet,  half  carrying  her,  pushing 
her  forward. 

He  raged  impotently.  What  brutes  men  were! 
Nothing  that  she  had  done  to  his  sex  was  bad  enough. 
He  thrust  the  vision  from  him.  Each  time  it  re 
turned. 

The  door  creaked.  He  leaped  as  if  he  had  been 
shot.  She  pressed  a  finger  to  her  lips.  Coming  close, 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL   191 

so  that  he  could  feel  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom, 
"He's  here,"  she  whispered. 


"Who?" 

She  was  puzzled  by  his  stupidity.  Then,  "You 
know,"  she  murmured.  "He  saw  me  in  the  distance 
and  started  to  run  toward  me.  I  dropped  to  my 
knees  and  circled,  approaching  the  hut  from  the 
back." 

"But  he  couldn't  have  recognized  you." 

"He's  on  my  track." 

"Alone?" 

"I  saw  no  one  else." 

Hindwood's  forehead  wrinkled  as  he  reckoned  the 
cost.  "If  he  comes  alone,  we  can  deal  with  him." 

"You  mean — ?"     She  did  not  finish  her  sentence. 

He  smiled  sternly,  thinking  how  far  he  had  drifted 
from  his  moorings.  "Scarcely.  What  made  you 
ask?" 

"He's  my  husband."     Her  answer  was  enigmatic. 

They  held  their  breath.  She  was  clinging  to  him. 
There  had  been  no  sound,  nothing  that  could  have 
warned  them.  Pushing  her  from  him,  he  stole 
toward  the  window.  Not  fifty  yards  away,  rigid 
like  a  hound  at  fault,  stood  the  Major.  Slowly, 
scarcely  turning  his  head,  he  was  running  his  eye 
along  the  double  line  of  hutments.  There  was  noth 
ing  in  his  expression  that  would  tell  what  he  had 


192  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

found.  As  though  he  sensed  that  he  was  watched, 
he  started  forward  at  a  rambling  pace.  He  tried  no 
doors.  He  peered  through  no  panes.  His  bearing 
was  that  of  a  mildly  interested  tourist  who  had  stum 
bled  on  the  camp  by  accident.  He  passed  out  of  sight 
inoffensively,  idly  slashing  at  the  grass. 

It  was  some  time  before  either  of  them  dared  to 
whisper.  Then  Hindwood  straightened  himself  and 
drew  back. 

"He's  gone." 

"To  return,"  she  said  tragically. 

"If  he  returns  alone,  what  of  it?" 

"He  may  catch  me." 

"That  doesn't  follow.    We  may  catch  him  instead." 

Her  eyes  grew  long  and  narrow  like  a  cat's. 
"What  would  we  do  with  him?"  she  asked  softly. 

He  regarded  her  warily.  "He  told  me  he  loved 
you,"  he  said  irrelevantly. 

"Love  wouldn't  stand  in  his  way — nothing  per 
sonal.  For  what  he  holds  to  be  right,  he'd  mutilate 
himself.  He'd  kill  the  thing  he  loved  best."  She 
sank  her  voice.  "We  all  would." 

"All —  '  He  paused  and  began  again.  "With 
idealists  like  the  Major,  yourself  and  Varensky, 
human  relations  don't  count.  That  was  what  you 
were  trying  to  tell  me,  wasn't  it?  To  achieve  in 
dividual  ideals,  you'd  sacrifice  your  own  and  every 
body's  happiness." 

Her  expression  became  wooden  as  an  idol's. 

"You'd  sacrifice  mine,  for  instance?" 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL   193 

When  she  refused  to  answer,  he  made  his  inquiry 
more  intrusive. 

"My  life,  perhaps?  No  obligation  of  loyalty  or 
gratitude  would  hinder  you?  Be  honest." 

He  recognized  the  struggle  which  his  words  had 
occasioned.  Her  sleepy  look  had  vanished.  She 
believed  he  was  preparing  to  desert  her.  She  was 
mustering  the  courage  to  invent  a  falsehood. 
Already  her  hands  were  lying.  They  were  wander 
ing  over  him,  patting  and  caressing.  He  clasped 
them  in  his  own,  holding  her  at  arm's  length.  Her 
eyes  met  his;  they  grew  steady  and  absorbed  him. 

"Even  though  you  were  all  I  had,  if  your  life 
caused  suffering  to  children,  I  would  kill  you." 

He  laughed  at  her  solemnity  over  having  told  the 
truth. 

"With  you  it's  children;  with  the  Major  it's  pa 
triotism;  with  Varensky  it's  freedom.  With  me  it's 
nothing.  I  follow  no  will-o'-the-wisp — which  is  lucky 
for  you.  You're  terribly  tired;  get  some  rest  while 
you  can.  I'll  watch.  I'm  no  idealist ;  you  can  trust 
me.'* 


VI 


She  had  wrapped  herself  in  her  sable  cloak  and 
curled  herself  on  the  floor  in  the  corner  remotest 
from  the  window.  When  he  judged  she  was  sleep 
ing,  he  stole  to  her  side  and  stood  gazing  down.  Her 
rags  were  hidden.  Except  for  the  weary  disorder  of 


194  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

her  hair,  she  was  almost  the  fashionable  beauty  of 
his  Atlantic  voyage. 

He  looked  closer.  Fatigue  had  uncovered  some 
thing  hidden  in  her  countenance,  traces  of  lost  girl 
hood.  Her  body  seemed  smaller,  her  features  less 
decided.  The  mask  of  intrigue  had  fallen.  He 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  slim,  pathetic  child  whom 
the  Major  had  discovered,  swaying  like  lilac-bloom 
in  the  perfumed  dusk  of  the  Hindoo  temple. 

Her  feet  peeped  out  from  beneath  the  costly  fur. 
Such  doll's  feet — so  little  to  have  come  so  long  a 
journey!  Her  ankles  were  cut  by  the  climb  up  the 
cliff.  Her  shoes  were  broken.  As  though  the  curtain 
had  gone  up  in  the  theater  of  his  brain,  her  feet 
began  to  act  their  story.  He  saw  them  tiny  and 
brown,  pattering  about  the  shaded  bungalow  where 
the  English  tea-planter  had  lived  with  her  Burmese 
mother.  He  saw  them  lost  and  wandering  along  the 
roads  of  India.  He  saw  them  in  the  temple,  flashing 
like  a  swallow's  flight  across  mosaic  pavements.  He 
followed  all  their  progress,  as  they  carried  her 
through  triumphs  and  bereavements  to  this  moment. 

She  sighed  and  moved  languidly.  The  robe  fell 
back,  revealing  her  hands.  They  were  grazed  and 
wounded. 

Pouring  water  on  his  handkerchief  from  the 
pitcher,  he  bathed  them  gently.  Just  as  he  had 
finished,  she  opened  her  eyes. 

"You  won't  leave  me?" 

"You'll  find  me  sitting  here,"  he  assured  her, 
"just  like  this  when  you  waken." 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  195 

Smiling  faintly,  she  drowsed  off  obediently  as  a 
child. 

All  day  she  lay  huddled  in  the  corner,  oblivious 
and  spent  with  exhaustion.  This  must  be  the  first 
long  sleep  she  had  snatched  for  several  days  and 
nights.  Crouched  beside  the  window,  he  guarded  her. 
The  Major  might  return.  Varensky  might  send  help. 
He  himself  could  do  nothing  till  after  nightfall.  The 
only  food  was  the  broken  loaf  of  bread  on  the  shelf 
beside  the  pitcher.  He  did  not  dare  to  touch  it; 
when  she  woke,  she  would  be  hungry.  The  downs 
poured  in  a  steady  blaze  of  light.  A  fly  drummed 
against  the  panes.  On  distant  hillsides  sheep  were 
grazing;  he  envied  them  their  freedom. 

He  could  go  if  he  liked.  As  the  monotony  dragged 
on,  the  temptation  strengthened.  He  was  under  no 
obligation  to  make  himself  an  outlaw.  If  he  were  to 
slip  away,  he  would  not  rouse  her.  Within  the  hour 
he  could  be  speeding  up  to  London.  Once  there  he 
would  be  of  importance — the  one  man,  at  least  in 
some  statesmen's  estimate,  who  could  solve  the  Eu 
ropean  situation.  For  this  woman  he  was  sacrificing 
the  happiness  of  millions.  The  fleshpots  of  Egypt 
could  he  his  for  the  claiming.  If  he  stayed  and  she 
were  arrested,  he  would  be  held  as  her  accomplice. 
Self-interest  and  altruism  urged  him  to  escape.  He 
owed  nothing  to  her.  Women  had  always  been  for 
him  an  enemy  country,  forbidden  and  enticing.  They 
had  been  what  darkest  Africa  was  to  the  explorer,  a 
forest-world  of  treacherous  loveliness.  In  imagina 
tion  he  had  always  been  approaching  their  borders, 


196  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

fascinated  by  the  gleam  of  uplifted  faces.  But  like 
Varensky,  whose  life  was  a  constant  challenging  of 
terror,  in  this  one  matter  he  had  been  cowardly. 
Since  the  first  false  woman  of  his  early  manhood — • 

Why  was  it,  this  sudden  clamor  to  possess  the 
thing  which  all  his  years  he  had  avoided?  Was  it 
because  he  felt  the  rising  tide  of  loneliness  and 
knew  that  the  years  were  gaining  on  him?  All  this 
autumn  day,  as  the  silver  clearness  of  morning  faded 
into  the  deep  gold  of  afternoon,  he  sat  motionless, 
considering.  Up  to  now  he  had  maintained  his  pride, 
flattering  himself  that  it  was  he  who  was  doing  the 
refusing.  He  had  told  himself  arrogantly  that  he 
would  succeed  first — succeed  immensely;  after  that 
he  could  have  any  woman  for  the  asking.  But  could 
he?  He  was  losing  his  faculty  for  sharing.  Merely 
to  marry  a  woman  was  not  to  win  her.  The  illusion 
of  ecstasy! 

He  glanced  over  to  the  corner  where  she  lay  sleep 
ing.  She  was  the  symbol  of  the  feminine  half  of  the 
world  whom  he  had  disregarded.  It  was  she  who  had 
roused  him,  with  her  parched  voice  and  instinctive 
passion. 

He  studied  her — her  golden  face,  her  cruel  lips,  her 
thin,  sweet  profile.  He  noticed  the  delicate  firmness 
of  her  arms,  the  fineness  of  her  throat,  the  tenderness 
of  her  molding.  At  every  point  she  made  him  aware 
of  his  incompleteness. 

Across  the  downs,  like  a  fisherman  drawing  in  his 
nets,  the  sun  was  setting.  The  hut  was  vague  with 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL   197 

dusk.     Like  the  crescent  of  a  young  moon,  Santa 
had  wakened  and  was  rising. 


VII 


"You  promised  to  save  me." 

"I  will  if  I  can." 

She  knotted  her  hands  in  mental  anguish. 

"You  must.  Any  moment  he  may  return.  Have 
you  thought  of  nothing?" 

Leaning  across  his  shoulder  she  lifted  the  ragged 
curtain,  peering  out  at  the  fading  landscape;  as 
she  gazed,  her  face  stiffened  and  her  eyes  became 
fixed  in  a  leaden  stare.  Not  more  than  thirty  yards 
distant,  with  his  back  toward  them,  the  Major  was 
standing.  He  had  followed  their  trail  still  closer. 

"We  can't  escape,"  she  panted.  "He'll  be  there 
all  night,  to-morrow,  forever." 

"We  can.     Stop  here  and  trust  me." 

Rising  stealthily,  leaving  the  door  ajar  behind 
him,  he  slipped  out  of  the  hut.  In  the  twilight  he 
halted,  breathing  in  the  sweet  evening  fragrance. 
Without  further  secrecy,  he  strode  toward  the 
Major. 

"Good  evening.     I've  been  expecting  you." 

At  the  first  word  the  Major  spun  round,  alertly 
on  the  defensive. 

"I  have  your  prisoner,"  he  continued.  "I  found  I 
had  no  taste  for  being  added  to  her  list  of  victims. 
I'll  be  glad  if  you'll  take  her  off  my  hands.  She's  in 


198  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

there."    He  jerked  his   thumb  across  his   shoulder. 

The  Major  eyed  him  fiercely.  "How  d'you  mean, 
you  were  expecting  me?" 

Hindwood  laughed.  "I  caught  sight  of  you  last 
night  in  Varensky's  garden  and  this  morning  on  the 
downs.  I  didn't  let  you  know,  because  there  were 
things  I  was  anxious  to  investigate." 

"For  instance?" 

"The  purpose  of  her  game." 

"And  you've  satisfied  yourself?" 

"At  the  risk  of  my  life — yes.  When  you  warned 
me  against  being  romantic,  I  thought  you  were 
merely  jealous.  Fortunately  or  unfortunately, 
whichever  way  you  like  to  put  it,  I  know  now  that 
everything  you  told  me  was  correct." 

"Humph!" 

The  Major  twirled  his  mustaches  thoughtfully. 
In  the  last  of  the  daylight  he  looked  like  a  lean, 
white  cat. 

His  coolness  began  to  wear  on  Hindwood's  nerves. 
"I  suppose  your  men  are  hidden.  Let's  make  an 
end." 

"I  have  no  men."  The  Major  spoke  slowly. 
"You  forget  that  this  woman  is  my  wife.  I  wished 
to  spare  her  as  much  as  possible  by  making  the  ar 
rest  myself!"  His  eyes  narrowed  shrewdly.  "How 
did  you  manage  to  secure  her?" 

"Luck.  She  had  an  accident.  It's  too  long  a 
story.  She  can't  get  away.  I'm  through ;  I've  done 
my  share." 

As  he  turned  to  go,  the  older  man  stretched  out  a 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL   199 

delaying  hand.  His  iron  discipline  wavered.  "It's 
not  a  cheerful  task.  If  you'll  be  so  good  as  to 
stay—" 

"If  you  feel  like  that—" 

"I  daren't  allow  myself  to  feel.  It's  something  I 
owe  my  country." 

As  though  afraid  that  he  would  weaken,  the 
Major  set  out  at  a  run  across  the  turf.  Outside  the 
hut  he  waited.  As  Hindwood  caught  up  with  him, 
he  whispered: 

"Two  men  against  one  woman !  For  an  old  soldier 
it  isn't  gallant." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  entering,  when  he  felt 
himself  flung  violently  forward.  Hindwood's  arm 
was  crooked  about  his  throat,  shutting  off  his  breath. 
Bursting  into  the  hut,  he  was  hurled  to  the  floor  and 
found  himself  struggling  in  the  darkness.  He  was 
being  pressed  down  and  down.  A  voice  spoke,  the 
accents  of  which  a  minute  ago  had  been  friendly. 

"Close  the  door.  Get  something  to  bind  him. 
Anything  that  will  hold.  Tear  strips  off  your  dress." 


VIII 

It  was  over.  The  Major  had  been  trussed  and 
gagged.  He  had  been  handcuffed  with  his  own 
manacles.  His  revolver  had  been  removed  and  his 
pockets  searched.  He  leaned  propped  against  the 
wall  like  a  jointed  doll,  his  body  making  an  exact 
right  angle  with  his  legs.  The  angry  vigilance  of 


200  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

his  eyes  was  his  only  sign  of  life.  There  was  no 
means  of  making  a  light,  even  if  it  had  been  safe  to 
employ  it.  Now  that  the  fight  was  ended,  they  sat 
staring  into  the  gloom,  anonymous  as  three  shadows. 

It  was  Hindwood  who  broke  the  silence.  "I've 
been  guilty  of  an  outrage,  Major;  I  guess  that's 
what  you'd  like  to  tell  me.  But  you  gave  me  no 
choice.  Where  I  come  from,  women  and  children 
are  held  sacred.  It  was  up  to  some  man  to  protect 
her." 

He  paused  instinctively,  as  though  he  expected  a 
reply.  He  looked  to  Santa  where  she  crouched, 
motionless  and  scarcely  discernible,  in  her  corner. 
What  were  they  thinking,  this  husband  and  wife,  so 
brutally  reunited?  His  sense  of  discomfort  urged 
him  to  continue. 

"Don't  run  off  with  the  idea  that  I  approve  of 
what  she's  done.  And  I'm  not  in  love  with  her.  If 
she  were  a  man,  I  don't  suppose  I'd  raise  a  finger  to 
save  her.  But  she's  a  woman:  inconsistently,  that 
makes  all  the  difference.  I  couldn't  stand  for  seeing 
her  dragged  away  to  the  kind  of  shame — ' 

Again  he  paused.  The  lack  of  response  was  mad 
dening.  Scrambling  to  his  feet,  he  bent  over  the 
Major. 

"To  be  frank,  now  that  I've  got  you,  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  you.  If  you'll  promise  to 
keep  quiet,  I'll  remove  the  gag." 

"No."  Santa  had  not  stirred.  In  the  darkness 
she  was  little  more  than  a  voice.  "Let  me  speak  while 
he's  forced  to  listen.  Put  him  where  I  can  see  him." 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  201 

Taking  his  prisoner  by  the  shoulders,  Hindwood 
dragged  him  to  the  window.  With  a  jerk  he  tore  the 
ragged  curtain  from  its  nails.  The  downs  were  a 
sea  of  purple  dusk.  The  moon  hung  like  a  lantern 
in  an  unruffled  sky.  Against  the  square  of  glass, 
the  Major's  face  showed  hawk-like. 

"You've  changed."  She  spoke  softly.  "Do  you 
remember  when  last  we  parted?  On  the  docks  at 
Calcutta.  It  hurt.  Since  then  we've  both  gone 
down  the  ladder.  For  both  of  us  it  was  the  end  of 
goodness.  I  must  have  known  it.  I  waved  till  long 
after  you  were  out  of  sight;  then  I  wept  till  my 
heart  was  shriveled  up.  How  long  I've  waited  to 
tell  you  what  you've  made  me  suffer!  You  made  me 
feel  that  I'd  never  been  your  wife,  only  a  half-caste 
plaything.  But  you'd  put  a  white  soul  into  my  body. 
It  was  a  greater  wickedness  than  anything  I  have 
done.  Now  that  I'm  what  you've  made  me,  father 
of  my  dead  child,  you  seek  me  out  to  be  my  judge." 

Her  hoarse  voice  died  away.  Like  the  protest  of 
an  uneasy  conscience,  the  Major's  handcuffs  clinked 
together. 

"You  think  that  you're  just,"  she  began  again. 
"You  come  of  a  race  which  admires  justice.  Ah, 
but  justice  is  not  kindness!  You  knew  what  I  was 
when  you  brought  me  from  the  temple — a  wanton 
slave-girl.  What  had  I  learned  of  righteousness? 
It  wasn't  for  my  virtue  that  you  bought  me.  It  was 
for  my  pomegranate  lips,  my  golden  body,  my  little, 
caressing  hands.  Afterward,  as  an  incentive  to  de 
sire,  it  pleased  you  to  bring  the  soul  into  my  eyes. 


202  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

You  made  me  long  to  be  perfect.  You  seemed  so 
strong  and  wise ;  I  wanted  to  be  like  you.  Without 
you  I  was  afraid.  You  were  my  God.  I  felt  brave 
when  I  touched  you.'* 

Her  voice  sank.  "After  the  little  one  came,  I 
was  no  longer  frightened.  He  was  so  nearly  white. 
He  was  yours  and  mine.  My  blood  seemed  cleansed. 
I  saw  the  world  through  the  innocence  of  his  eyes. 
The  evil  of  the  East  ceased  to  call  to  me.  But  when 
he  was  killed  and  you  put  me  from  you —  Murderer 
of  a  woman's  faith,"  she  addressed  the  silent  face, 
"the  soul  in  me  was  dying." 

She  rocked  in  the  shadows.  "My  crimes  are  yours, 
and  you  came  to  condemn  me.  You  robbed  me  of 
everything  but  my  body.  My  heart  was  famished; 
to  feed  it,  I  sold  my  beauty  at  a  price.  At  first, 
for  men's  money ;  then,  for  their  honor ;  at  last,  for 
their  lives."  She  had  risen.  "You  wonder  why  for 
their  lives?  They  were  men  like  you,  outwardly  just, 
who  destroyed  belief  in  goodness.  Because  of  men 
like  you  women's  hearts  are  broken  and  children 
go  naked." 

Hindwood  leaped  to  his  feet,  blocking  her  path. 
She  leaned  past  him,  staring  down  into  the  bandaged 
face. 

"Oh,  husband  without  pity,  god  whom  I  wor 
shipped,  I  burn  in  hell  because  of  your  justice." 

Slipping  to  her  knees,  she  came  into  the  square  of 
light.  "Am  I  not  beautiful?  Is  there  another  like 
me?  Would  it  not  have  been  happier  to  have  been 
kind?  See  what  you  have  spoiled." 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  203 


IX 


There  was  the  rustling  of  footsteps  in  the  grass 
outside.  Letting  in  a  flood  of  moonlight,  the  door 
was  pushed  gently  open. 

"May  we  enter?" 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  a  man  padded  noise 
lessly  across  the  threshold.  By  his  peaked  head 
and  the  litheness  of  his  body,  Hindwood  recognized 
him  as  Varensky.  Behind  him,  with  the  mildness  of 
attendant  angels,  Anna  and  the  Little  Grandmother 
followed.  Just  inside  the  room  he  halted. 

"What's  this?" 

The  bound  face  in  the  square  of  window  had 
riveted  his  attention. 

"Her  husband." 

"But  why—?" 

Hindwood  spoke  again.  "He  had  come  to  take 
her  to  be  hanged." 

The  pale  face  smiled  contemptuously.  "Hang 
ing's  only  a  way  of  dying.  Was  that  any  reason  for 
making  him  suffer?" 

Without  further  argument,  taking  command  of 
the  situation,  he  stepped  quickly  to  the  Major's 
side.  Stooping,  he  cut  the  bonds  and  removed  the 

gag- 

"You're  free — free  to  go  where  you  like  and  to 

get  us  all  into  trouble.  We  shall  be  here  for  at  least 
an  hour,  so  you'll  have  time.  I  landed  without  per 
mission  in  your  England  this  morning.  That's  a 


204-  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

cause  for  police  interference.    My  name's  Ivan  Varen 
sky." 

The  Major  rose  painfully,  blinking  at  the  lean, 
green-eyed  stranger  as  though  he  had  discovered  in 
him  a  jester.  "There  are  still  the  handcuffs,"  he 
muttered. 

When  the  handcuffs  had  been  knocked  off,  Varen- 
sky  repeated,  "You're  free  to  go." 

The  Major  shook  himself  and  resumed  his  strut 
ting  air,  like  a  brave  old  rooster  who  had  all  but  had 
his  neck  wrung.  "If  it  makes  no  difference,  I'll  stay." 

With  his  left  eye  shut  and  his  head  on  one  side, 
Varensky  regarded  him  comically.  "No  difference! 
It  may.  You're  a  secret  service  agent ;  I'm  a  revolu 
tionary.  You  uphold  laws ;  I  defy  them.  You're  the 
servant  of  force;  I  hate  every  form  of  compulsion. 
What  difference  it  makes  depends  on  yourself — 
whether  you  propose  to  stay  as  a  spy  or  as  a  man  of 
honor." 

"As  a  sportsman  who  abides  by  the  rules  of  the 
game." 

Varensky  shrugged  his  narrow  shoulders.  "As 
a  sportsman  who  hunts  women?"  He  turned  ten 
derly  to  Santa.  "You're  famished.  We'll  cover  up 
the  window  and  make  a  light." 

When  candles  which  they  had  brought  had  been 
kindled  and  the  meal  spread,  Santa  and  Hindwood 
sat  down  on  the  floor,  facing  each  other.  While  they 
ate  there  was  dead  silence.  Hindwood  kept  catching 
glimpses  of  her  eyes.  What  was  to  be  the  end  of 
her?  Her  expression  was  stunned.  They  both  knew 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  205 

what  this  silence  betokened :  when  the  meal  was  over, 
her  fate  was  to  be  decided.  He  was  aware  of  each 
separate  personality,  as  though  each  were  making 
an  effort  to  explain  itself.  What  was  to  be  hoped 
for  from  the  verdict  of  such  a  jury?  Every  one 
in  the  hut,  except  Anna  and  himself,  was  a  fanatic. 
He  did  not  try  to  see  their  faces ;  all  he  saw  was 
their  hands  as  they  ministered  to  him.  The  hands 
of  Varensky,  half  clown's,  half  martyr's.  The 
wrinkled  hands  of  the  old  noblewoman,  worn  with 
service,  who  had  lived  with  outcasts  and  spent  her 
years  in  exile.  The  hands  of  Anna,  guilty  with 
yearning. 

Varensky  spoke  without  looking  up.  It  was  as 
though  he  were  carrying  on  a  conversation  already 
started.  "We  can't  restore  life,  so  what  right  have 
we  to  destroy  it?  To  be  merciful — that's  the  only 
way." 

His  green  eyes  sought  the  Major's.  "We  could 
have  killed  you  to-night — but  we  didn't.  Have  you 
wondered  why?  By  letting  you  go,  we've  put  our 
selves  in  your  power.  To-morrow  you  can  drag  us 
all  to  jail.  You're  a  hard  man.  You  exact  an  eye 
for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.  You  came  here 
to-night  to  exact  a  life.  If  we  had  judged  you  by 
your  own  standards,  we  should  have  been  justified 
in  giving  you  no  quarter.  If  we  had,  what  good 
would  it  have  done?  You'd  only  have  been  dead. 
And  if  you'd  managed  to  capture  Santa,  what  good 
would  that  have  done?  To  have  had  her  executed 
wouldn't  have  made  her  a  better  woman." 


206  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

He   reached   out    and   took   her   unwilling  hand, 

O  ' 

bending  back  the  fingers  one  by  one.  "They're 
beautiful.  See  how  cleverly  they  work.  There's  not 
a  scientist  living  can  reproduce  their  mechanism. 
No  one  knows  how  they  grew  to  be  like  that." 

His  tone  became  tender.  "Santa's  been  bad.  She's 
been  treacherous  and  cruel:  a  faithless  wife  and  a 
menace.  Merely  to  punish  her  wouldn't  undo  her 
evil.  Only  she  can  do  that." 

For  the  first  time  the  Major  spoke.  "At  what 
are  you  driving?" 

Varensky  made  no  attempt  to  answer  him.  He 
seemed  not  to  have  heard.  He  sat  cross-legged  on  the 
floor,  folding  and  unfolding  Santa's  fingers,  while  his 
grotesque  shadow  squatted  on  the  wall  behind  him. 
He  looked  like  a  kindly,  embarrassed  boy,  trying  to 
say  something  to  the  sulky  girl  so  that  it  should 
not  sound  too  wounding. 

"I  wonder  whether  Santa's  husband  ever  saw  a 
woman  when  she  was  dead.  There's  no  light  in  her 
eyes.  She  can't  say  that  she's  sorry.  Last  week  I 
saw  hundreds  in  the  ditches  about  Kiev.  They 
weren't  lovely.  We  mustn't  let  our  Santa  become 
like  that." 

He  turned  to  the  Major  with  a  slow  smile.  "Must 
we?  You  wouldn't  like  to  think  of  the  woman  you 
had  loved — " 

The  Major  took  a  step  into  the  room  and  stood 
biting  his  lips,  glooming  down  at  Varensky. 

"You  and  I,  sir,  view  our  duty  from  hostile  stand 
points.  I  care  for  this  woman  infinitely  more  than 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  207 

you  can  ever  care.  But  I  care  still  more  for  my 
country.  She's  betrayed  it  a  score  of  times.  Shall 
I,  because  I  am  her  husband,  stand  by  and  allow  her 
to  betray  it?  Had  I  accomplished  the  purpose  that 
brought  me  here  to-night,  my  heart  would  have  been 
broken.  To  have  put  handcuffs  on  her  wrists  and 
to  have  sworn  away  her  life,  do  you  think  it  would 
have  cost  me  nothing?  The  very  judge  who  sentenced 
her  would  have  shunned  me." 

The  Little  Grandmother  looked  up.  She  spoke 
gruffly.  "And  what  would  have  been  the  use  of 
your  suffering?  Society  would  have  been  revenged. 
It  would  have  washed  its  hands,  like  Pontius  Pilate. 
It  would  have  smiled  smugly,  believing  she  was  wrong 
and  it  was  right.  It  would  have  gone  on  its  way, 
manufacturing  more  criminals  like  her.  The  old 
evils  that  have  made  her  what  she  is  would  have 
continued,  while  she —  She  snapped  her  fingers 
furiously.  "Like  the  women  in  the  ditches  about 
Kiev." 

When  the  room  had  grown  silent,  Varensky  cov 
ered  the  Major  with  his  mocking  stare. 

"You  must  excuse  our  Little  Grandmother.  She 
feels  these  things  intensely.  More  than  half  her 
years  have  been  spent  in  prison." 

The  Major  pulled  himself  together.  "She  needs 
no  excusing.  What  is  it  that  you  want  of  me?" 


208  THE  VANISHING  POINT 


"Santa's  life.  It's  of  no  use  to  you."  He  smiled 
in  the  midst  of  his  earnestness.  "I'm  a  boy  begging 
for  a  broken  watch.  You  were  going  to  throw  it 
away.  I  have  dreams  that  I  could  repair  it." 

The  Major  twitched  irritably.  "And  you  talk  like 
a  boy.  How  can  I  give  you  what  doesn't  belong  to 
me?  At  every  port  in  Europe  the  police  are  watch 
ing.  For  me  to  forgive  her  wouldn't  help.  It  isn't 
against  me  that  she's  offended ;  it's  against  the  laws 
of  civilization." 

"I  know."  Varensky  nodded  soothingly.  "You're 
only  one  of  the  many  agents  of  social  vengeance. 
What  I  ought  to  have  asked  you  was  to  give  me  the 
part  of  her  life  that  does  belong  to  you.  She's 
in  your  clutches.  Let  her  escape.  Keep  silent  and 
drop  your  pursuit." 

"And  if  I  do?" 

Varensky  tucked  his  legs  closer  under  him  and 
bent  forward.  "Perhaps  I  could  turn  her  into  a 
saint."  A  note  of  passionate  pleading  crept  into 
his  voice.  "She  loves  children.  It  was  how  her  wick 
edness  started.  She  was  blind  and  mistaken,  and 
all  her  crimes  were  committed  for  children.  A  woman 
who  loves  children  must  be  good.  She's  done  abom 
inable  things.  She  could  become  magnificent  if  she 
would  do  good  with  an  equal  violence." 

The  Major  glanced  at  the  subject  of  these  prophe 
cies,  sitting  in  their  midst,  rebelliously  silent.  He 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  209 

said  wearily:  "Mere  words!  You  offer  me  no 
proof!" 

The  white  face  seemed  to  grow  till  it  filled  the 
room.  The  green  eyes  glowed  like  emeralds.  They 
were  uncanny  and  hypnotic.  Language  came  in  a 
torrent.  "It  isn't  her  body — it's  her  soul.  If  she 
were  to  die  now,  what  would  happen  to  her?  I  tried 
to  save  the  soul  of  a  nation.  Let  me  do  for  Santa 
what  I  couldn't  do  for  Russia — prove  that  mercy 
restores  where  punishment  destroys.  There's  been 
too  much  killing.  The  world  grows  worse  instead  of 
better.  It's  been  going  on  for  ages,  this  hanging  and 
guillotining  and  bludgeoning.  It's  reformed  nothing. 
It's  the  might  is  right  of  the  jungle,  the  justice  of 
apes  and  cavemen.  Revenge,  whether  it's  carried  out 
by  tooth  and  claw  or  by  law-courts  and  armies, 
never  heals  anything ;  it  always  leaves  a  bruise.  The 
face  of  Europe  is  bruised  beyond  recovery  by  our 
last  display  of  justice.  Its  fields  are  rotten  with 
corpses.  Shall  we  add  one  more  to  the  many — a 
woman's  ?" 

He  paused,  trembling  like  a  leaf.  When  the  Major 
only  frowned,  he  sank  back  exhausted. 

"If  you'd  seen  what  I've  seen — '  His  head  sagged 
stupidly.  "If  you'd  seen  what  I've  seen — miles  of 
men,  all  slaughtered;  women  dead  of  starvation, 
children  hunting  in  packs  like  wolves.  And  all  be 
cause  there's  no  mercy.  If  you'd  seen,  you  couldn't 
kill  anything." 

The  candles  ceased  to  gutter.  Shadows  huddled 
motionless.  The  very  silence  seemed  accused. 


210  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

Hindwood  rose.  He  could  endure  the  tension  no 
longer.  "I  know  nothing  about  her  soul  and  not 
much  about  her  guilt.  All  I  know  is  that  she's  a 
woman  at  the  end  of  her  tether  who's  been  handed 
one  of  the  rawest  of  raw  deals.  That  the  world's 
been  hard  on  her  won't  excuse  her.  We  can't  alter 
the  world  over  night.  If  she's  caught,  as  she  may 
be  at  any  moment,  it'll  be  all  up  with  her.  I  don't 
care  what  she's  done  or  how  much  I  lose  by  it,  Fm 
not  going  to  stand  by  and  see  her  taken." 

The  Major  swung  round.  "Nor  am  I.  But  how  to 
avoid  it?" 

Hindwood  showed  his  suspicion  of  this  sudden 
conversion.  "Tell  me,"  he  answered  cautiously, 
"have  you  handed  in  any  reports,  I  mean  officially — 
about  my  knowledge  of  Santa?" 

"Beyond  the  fact  that  you  crossed  on  the  same 
boat  with  her,  you've  not  been  mentioned." 

"And  there's  no  one  in  your  service,  besides  your 
self,  who  has  the  least  idea  of  her  whereabouts  ?" 

"No  one." 

"Then  it  can  be  managed." 

He  was  dimly  conscious  of  the  pale  expectancy 
of  the  faces  lifted  up  to  him.  He  felt  that  he  was 
on  the  edge  of  a  whirlpool  into  which  he  was  being 
slowly  dragged.  Even  at  this  last  moment  he  made 
an  effort  to  resist  it.  Then  it  seemed  to  him  that 
in  the  heart  of  its  eddies  he  saw  a  woman.  She  grew 
distinct ;  her  face  was  Anna's. 

"Let  me  explain,"  he  said.  "I'm  neither  humani 
tarian  nor  idealist.  I  have  no  fantastic  hopes  of 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  211 

turning  sinners  into  saints.  I'm  head  of  a  group  of 
American  financiers,  and  I'm  in  Europe  to  employ 
its  starving  peoples.  Don't  misunderstand  me.  The 
result  of  my  mission  may  be  philanthropic,  but  its 
purpose  is  to  make  a  profit.  Since  the  war  Europe's 
become  a  bargain-counter  where  everything's  exposed 
for  sale — everything  except  food.  I  can  supply 
food.  With  food  I  can  purchase,  for  a  fraction  of 
their  value,  railroads,  factories,  labor.  I  tell  you 
this  so  that  you  may  not  doubt  me  when  I  say  that 
I  have  it  in  my  power  to  protect  her.  Once  out  of 
England,  no  escaping  criminal  could  find  a  safer 
place  of  refuge  than  in  my  company.  I  have  influ 
ence  with  all  governments ;  with  food  I  can  stop  revo 
lution.  None  of  them  dares  suspect  me.  I  propose 
that  I  should  take  Santa  with  me.  I  travel  on  diplo 
matic  passports ;  with  me  she'll  have  no  trouble  in 
crossing  frontiers." 

The  silence  that  greeted  his  offer  lengthened.  At  a 
loss  to  account  for  it,  he  glanced  from  face  to  face. 

"Have  I  offended?" 

It  was  Santa  who  replied.  Leaping  up  in  their 
midst,  tattered  and  disheveled,  she  threatened  them 
like  dogs  whom  she  would  beat  aside. 

"Beasts !"  A  sob  caught  her  breath.  "Is  it  impos 
sible  even  for  you,  who  call  yourselves  my  friends,  to 
believe  any  good  of  me?  I  swear  before  heaven  he 
has  no  love  for  me." 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 


XI 

Back  in  London  he  lost  no  time  in  completing  ar 
rangements  for  departure.  Every  boat  that  left 
for  France  without  him  lessened  Santa's  chance  of 
safety.  And  yet,  though  he  worked  frantically,  can 
celing  appointments  and  clearing  up  correspondence, 
he  couldn't  bring  home  to  himself  the  reality  of  the 
situation.  The  hut  on  the  downs  and  all  that  had 
happened  there  seemed  something  that  he  had  read 
or  imagined.  Only  the  face  of  Anna  stood  out  in 
memory,  clear-cut  and  actual.  It  seemed  impos 
sible  to  believe  that  he,  Philip  Hindwood,  was  in 
league  with  revolutionaries.  That  he  was  in  league 
was  proved  to  him  when  he  set  about  procuring  the 
passport  and  vises  necessary  for  Santa  to  accompany 
him.  By  the  time  he  obtained  them,  he  had  abused 
confidence  and  perjured  himself  beyond  hope  of 
pardon.  They  were  made  out  in  the  name  of  "Edith 
Jones,  spinster;  American-born  subject;  aged  thirty 
years ;  confidential  secretary  to  Philip  Hindwood, 
whom  she  is  accompanying."  All  her  permits  were 
marked  Special  and  Diplomatic.  It  wasn't  until  the 
bustle  was  over  and  he  was  seated  in  the  train  for 
Dover,  that  the  true  proportions  of  his  entangle 
ment  dawned  on  him. 

At  Dover  she  was  to  meet  him.  That  had  been 
the  understanding.  From  then  on,  day  in,  day  out, 
he  would  never  be  without  her.  No  matter  what 
strange  country  he  traversed,  she  would  sit  beside 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  213 

him,  reminding  him  of  his  complicity  in  her  crimes. 
He  would  have  to  talk  with  her,  eat  with  her,  pretend 
to  consult  with  her,  just  as  if  she  were  what  he  had 
claimed  her  to  be — his  confidential  secretary.  Would 
she  have  the  sense  to  act  discreetly?  Would 
she  expect  him  to  make  love  to  her?  He  glowered  out 
of  the  window  at  the  fleeting  landscape.  Any  folly 
was  possible  to  a  woman  with  her  record. 

What  made  him  most  iurioup  T*&P  *he  easy  way  in 
which  he  had  allowed  her  to  twist  him  round  her 
fingers.  It  was  the  woods  of  Vincennes  all  over 
again.  He  was  going  into  disordered  countries, 
where  governments  were  toppling  and  anarchy  was 
rife.  When  she  felt  herself  beyond  the  reach  of 
danger,  what  was  to  prevent  her  from  getting  rid  of 
him?  Russia,  if  he  got  so  far,  was  the  kind  of  night 
mare  in  wrhich  anything  might  happen.  In  Russia 
murder  was  one  of  the  fine  arts.  He  remembered 
Anna's  suspicion  that  Santa  was  a  Bolshevist  agent. 
It  added  nothing  to  his  comfort. 

He  had  given  way  to  idealism.  It  was  the  madness 
of  a  moment.  It  was  listening  to  Varensky  that  had 
worked  the  mischief.  Varensky  had  said  something 
about  idealism.  What  was  it?  That  idealism  was 
the  vanishing  point — the  last  outpost  between  Man 
and  Eternity.  His  words  came  back. 

"When  you  gaze  up  a  railroad  track,  there's 
always  a  point  in  the  infinite  distance  where,  just 
before  they  vanish,  the  parallel  rails  seem  to  join. 
If  a  train  were  ever  to  reach  that  point,  it  would 
mean  death.  Life's  like  that — a  track  along  which 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 

we  travel  on  the  parallel  rails  of  possibility  and  de 
sire.  The  lure  of  the  idealist  is  to  overtake  the  illu 
sion,  where  possibility  and  desire  seem  to  merge,  and 
the  safety  of  the  journey  ends." 

For  him  the  safety  of  the  journey  had  ended  the 
moment  it  had  started.  If  Varensky  had  meant 
anything  by  the  vanishing  point,  he  had  meant  that 
death  is  the  unconscious  goal  of  all  idealists.  Hind- 
wood  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  seemed  highly  prob 
able  when  you  took  Santa  with  you  on  your  travels. 

The  smell  of  the  Lea  was  in  the  air.  They  were 
slowing  down,  grinding  their  way  to  the  doclqs 
through  the  town  of  Dover. 

He  didn't  want  to  see  her.  He  would  make  no 
effort  to  find  her.  She  might  have  been  prevented 
from  joining  him — perhaps  arrested. 

After  the  train  had  halted,  he  took  his  time.  No 
one  whom  he  recognized  was  on  the  platform.  Di 
recting  a  porter  to  attend  to  his  baggage,  he  went 
quickly  to  the  embarkation  office  to  get  his  permit 
for  going  aboard.  As  he  was  entering,  he  felt  his 
arm  touched  timidly,  and  turned. 

"I'm  here." 

"I  see  you  are." 

"Didn't  you  expect  me?" 

He  made  an  effort  to  act  courteously.  "Of  course. 
There  are  formalities  to  be  gone  through.  You'd 
better  stick  close  to  me.  Don't  attract  attention. 
Let  me  do  the  talking." 

They  fell  into  line  behind  a  queue  of  passengers, 
winding  slowly  toward  a  table  where  officials  were  re- 


THE  GREEN  EYES  CAST  A  SPELL  215 

ceiving  and  inspecting  passports.  He  stood  well  in 
front  of  her,  doing  his  best  to  hide  her.  When  his 
turn  came  and  the  official  held  out  his  hand,  he 
presented  her  passport  with  his  own  perfunctorily. 

"Mine  and  my  secretary *s." 

The  official  was  on  the  point  of  returning  them, 
when  a  stockily-built  man  leaned  across  his  shoulder 
and  vhispered  something.  Both  of  them  looked  up, 
staring  hard  at  Santa. 

"Which  is  Miss  Jones?"  the  official  asked. 

"This  lady  at  my  side." 

"So  you're  Miss  Jones,  an  American  citizen?" 

Before  she  could  reply,  Hindwood  had  interposed. 
"I've  already  told  you  she's  Miss  Jones.  If  you'll 
look,  you'll  see  that  her  passport's  marked  Diplo 
matic  as  well  as  mine." 

The  two  men  consulted  together  in  lowered  tones. 
Then  the  passport  was  O.K.'d  and  restored. 

Picking  it  up,  together  with  the  embarkation  per 
mits,  Hindwood  strolled  leisurely  towards  the  gang 
plank.  Directly  they  were  on  board  he  hurried  Santa 
to  her  cabin  and  shut  the  door. 

"You'll  stay  here  till  we  sight  France.  I'm 
giving  no  one  else  the  opportunity  for  suspecting  a 
likeness." 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTH 


THE    ESCAPE 


THE  steamer  had  no  sooner  reached  Calais  than 
a  new  cause  for  alarm  presented  itself.  During 
the  channel  crossing  Hindwood  had  been  keyed  up  to 
the  last  point  of  tension.  Every  moment  he  had  ex 
pected  to  be  tapped  on  the  shoulder  and  informed 
that  his  secretary's  identity  had  been  discovered.  He 
had  spent  most  of  his  time  surreptitiously  mounting 
guard  in  the  neighborhood  of  Santa's  cabin.  If  the 
same  man  chanced  to  pass  him  twice,  he  had  at  once 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  being  shadowed. 

The  hesitancy  at  Dover  over  O.K.'ing  Santa's 
passport  had  robbed  him  of  whatever  sense  of  se 
curity  he  had  possessed.  It  had  compelled  him  to 
acknowledge  the  ruin  that  faced  him,  should  he  be 
exposed  while  engineering  the  flight  of  so  notorious 
a  criminal.  As  the  Major  had  warned  him,  she  was 
being  sought  by  the  police  of  every  country. 

If  the  worst  should  happen,  he  would  find  no  apolo 
gists.  It  would  be  useless  for  him  to  plead  a  chiv 
alrous  motive.  She  had  been  the  lodestar  of  mas 
culine  passions  too  often.  Though  he  managed  to 
escape  a  prison  sentence,  he  would  emerge  from  the 

216 


THE  ESCAPE  217 

catastrophe  broken  in  character — a  paltry  creature, 
half  knave,  half  fool,  who  had  gambled  away  his  in 
tegrity  and  made  himself  a  laughing  stock.  Already 
in  imagination  he  was  reading  the  scare  headlines 
which  would  advertise  his  shame  to  the  world.  He 
would  be  regarded  as  a  malefactor — hustled  behind 
bars  and  herded  for  trial  with  blackmailers  and  pick 
pockets. 

Dogged  by  these  persistent  dreads,  when  the  ship 
was  inside  Calais  harbor  he  rapped  on  her  door  and 
having  heard  her  bid  him  enter,  slipped  across  the 
threshold,  announcing  tersely: 

"We're  there." 

Since  she  joined  him,  he  had  held  no  conversation 
with  her.  She  made  no  attempt  to  break  through 
his  silence.  Rising  obediently,  while  she  adjusted  her 
hat,  she  watched  him  in  the  mirror  with  the  eyes  of 
a  reproachful  dog.  Without  sign  or  sound,  as  he 
turned  away  impatiently,  she  followed.  No  sooner 
did  they  appear  on  deck  than  the  new  cause  for  alarm 
started. 

A  handsome  and  distinguished-looking  foreigner 
began  taking  immediate  notice  of  her.  He  was  so 
quick  to  pick  her  out  in  the  throng  that  it  seemed  he 
must  have  been  watching  for  her.  Whoever  and 
whatever  he  was,  he  was  manifestly  a  man  of  breed 
ing — the  kind  of  man  who  might  have  been  her  com- 
panioH  in  the  old,  wild  days  of  her  triumphant  folly. 
He  was  about  thirty-five,  tall,  dark,  finely-built,  and 
of  military  bearing.  He  had  a  closely-trimmed  mus 
tache,  bold,  black  eyes,  and  a  Latin  type  of  counte- 


218  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

nance.  That  was  all  that  Hindwood  permitted  him 
self  to  observe;  changing  his  position  promptly,  he 
shut  Santa  out  from  the  stranger's  line  of  vision. 
But  the  man  was  not  to  be  balked.  With  an  air  of 
complete  unconcern,  he  fell  into  line  immediately  be 
hind  them,  treading  closely  on  their  heels  as  they 
passed  up  the  gangplank.  On  the  way  to  the  Cus 
toms  he  managed  to  get  ahead,  so  that  he  could 
glance  back  several  times  at  Santa. 

After  their  baggage  had  been  inspected  it  was 
necessary  for  them  to  file  through  a  stuffy  room 
where  passports  were  examined.  It  was  here  that 
Hindwood  was  fully  prepared  to  be  caught.  The 
officials  at  Dover  had  probably  cabled  a  warning ;  the 
inquisitive  stranger  might  prove  to  be  their  emissary. 
Quite  the  contrary  occurred.  The  French  official, 
catching  sight  of  the  magic  words  Diplomatic  and 
Special,  scrutinized  no  further  and  returned  the 
papers  with  a  courteous  apology.  Making  the  most 
of  his  luck,  Hindwood  hurried  Santa  out  onto  the 
platform,  down  the  long  train  labeled  Stuttgart, 
Warsaw,  etc.,  and  into  the  wagons-lits  which  went 
express  to  Vienna. 

Before  leaving  London  he  had  reserved  two  sepa 
rate  compartments  in  the  name  of  "Philip  Hind- 
wood  and  party."  Now  that  he  claimed  them,  he 
found  to  his  annoyance  that  they  were  adjoining  and 
connected  by  a  private  door.  It  was  an  indiscretion 
that  he  had  not  intended.  Having  seen  Santa  safely 
settled,  he  set  off  to  superintend  the  placing  on  board 
of  their  bags. 


THE  ESCAPE  219 

He  was  gone  perhaps  five  minutes.  As  he  ree'n- 
tered  the  corridor  of  his  section,  the  first  sight  that 
met  his  eyes  was  the  handsome  stranger  engaged  in 
earnest  talk  with  the  wagon-lits  conductor.  Some 
money  passed.  Next  thing  the  stranger's  belongings 
were  being  transferred  from  lower  down  the  train  to 
the  compartment  on  the  further  side  from  Santa's. 
Hindwood  entered  his  own  compartment,  shaded  the 
windows  that  looked  out  on  the  corridor  and  made 
fast  his  door. 

What  was  the  game?  Was  this  a  fresh  example  of 
Santa's  irresistible  charm?  And  if  it  was,  was  he 
to  be  subjected  to  this  kind  of  impertinence  through 
out  the  entire  journey?  Or  was  the  man  a  secret 
service  agent  in  the  employ  of  some  foreign  Govern 
ment,  who,  believing  he  had  recognized  her,  was  keep 
ing  her  in  sight  till  she  should  have  crossed  the 
frontier  into  his  own  country,  where  he  would  have 
power  to  arrest  her? 

In  his  anger  he  tried  to  blame  Santa ;  she  must 
have  unconsciously  exercised  her  talent  for  attrac 
tion.  Strangers  didn't  follow  women  unless 

But  he  had  to  own  himself  unjust.  She  was  dressed 
with  the  utmost  plainness,  in  a  tailored  costume, 
minus  furs  or  any  lavishness.  There  was  nothing  to 
complain  of  in  her  deportment.  It  was  as  modest 
as  could  have  been  expected  had  she  really  been 
"Edith  Jones,  aged  thirty,  American-born  citizen, 
confidential  secretary."  The  fault  lay  in  something 
beyond  her  control — her  beauty.  It  refused  to  be 
subdued.  It  shone  out  the  more  conspicuously  in 


220  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

the  absence  of  adornment.  It  constituted  itself  an 
unforeseen  embarrassment,  if  not  a  menace.  The 
further  he  traveled  into  continental  countries,  the 
less  he  would  be  believed  when  he  stated  that  she 
was  Miss  Jones  and  no  more  than  his  secretary. 
Already  more  people  than  the  obtrusive  stranger 
had  stared  at  her.  She  had  only  to  appear  to  make 
herself  the  focus  of  attention.  Sooner  or  later, 
to-day,  to-morrow,  a  month  hence,  some  one  would 
catch  sight  of  her  who  had  known  her  in  the  past. 
She  had  been  feted  in  too  many  cities,  her  portrait 
had  been  too  widely  published,  for  her  features  not 
to  be  remembered.  These  distressing  reflections  were 
cut  short  by  the  shrill  tootings  of  tin  horns  which 
announce  the  departure  of  a  train  in  France.  When 
Calais  had  been  left  behind  and  they  were  rushing 
past  stripped  orchards  and  harvested  fields,  he  un 
latched  the  dividing  door.  She  was  sitting  lost  in 
thought,  staring  out  of  the  window  with  a  wistful 
expression. 

"Come  into  my  compartment.     I'd  like  to  talk." 

The  jerk  with  which  she  turned  betrayed  the 
strain  under  which  she  was  laboring.  He  watched 
the  undulating  grace  with  which  she  rose,  the  calcu 
lated  delicacy  of  her  every  movement.  Though  she 
had  dressed  in  rags,  nothing  could  have  disguised 
her. 

When  he  had  closed  the  door,  she  remained  stand 
ing. 

"Please  sit  down,"  he  said  with  cold  politeness. 
"We're  safe  for  the  moment.  As  you  see,  I've  low- 


THE  ESCAPE 

ered  the  blinds.  No  one  can  spy  on  us.  You've 
noticed  him?" 

Drawing  off  her  gloves,  she  smoothed  them  out 
mechanically,  maintaining  her  silence. 

"Tell  me,"  he  urged,  "what  do  you  make  of  him?" 

"Nothing."  Her  voice  was  flat  and  toneless. 
"Wherever  I  go,  it's  always  the  same.  You  ought 
to  know — on  the  Ryndam  you  were  like  it." 

He  passed  over  the  implied  accusation.  "Then 
you  don't  think  he's  a ?" 

"I've  not  troubled  to  think."  She  glanced 
drearily  aside.  "Men  are  brutes.  If  you'd  left  me 
alone  on  the  cliff — I  wish  you  had.  It  would  have 
been  all  ended." 

She  said  it  without  spite — almost  without  re 
proach.  In  the  presence  of  her  melancholy,  he  re 
covered  something  of  his  compassion. 

"But  I  didn't  leave  you,  and  nothing's  gained  by 
recrimination.  The  point  is  this  fellow  next  door. 
What's  his  purpose?  How  are  we  going  to  manage 
him?" 

"Easily.  Fling  me  to  him  as  you'd  toss  a  dog  a 
bone.  You'll  be  rid  of  your  share  of  the  danger." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  rid  of  you."  He  passed  his 
hand  across  his  forehead,  mastering  his  impatience. 
"I  don't  pretend  I  shan't  be  glad 

"To  be  quit  of  me,"  she  prompted. 

"To  be  relieved  of  the  risk  of  you,"  he  corrected. 
"But  not  until  I've  fulfilled  my  promise." 

She  smiled.     "You  promised  you'd  save  me.     I 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 

can't  be  saved.  Varensky's  talk  about  redeeming  me 
was  visionary.  I  was  born  to  be  what  I  am." 

He  relaxed  and  sat  forward,  exerting  himself  to 
make  the  conversation  less  unfriendly.  "Of  course 
I  know  why  you  speak  this  way:  it's  because  of  my 
recent  treatment  of  you.  We  were  nearly  found 
out  at  Dover;  the  anxiety  of  it's  getting  on  my 
nerves.  I  promised  to  give  you  your  chance;  my 
promise  stands.  The  least  I  can  ask  of  you  as  a 
sportswoman  is  to  play  up  to  me." 

Her  whole  demeanor  changed.  The  golden  face 
flashed.  "I  will." 

"Then  if  this  man  is  only  an  impudent  admirer, 
how  are  we  to  shake  him?  It's  my  business  for  the 
present  to  protect  you.  If  this  is  the  sort  of  thing 
that  always  happens,  it's  possible  that  it'll  occur 
again.  I  daren't  resent  his  conduct.  Ordinarily  I 
should  know  what  to  do  with  him.  How  is  the  repe 
tition  of  the  annoyance  to  be  avoided?" 

A  slow  flush  mounted  from  her  throat  to  her 
cheeks.  "You  won't  take  my  suggestion,  so  I  don't 
think  I'll  make  it." 

"Let's  have  it." 

Not  looking  at  him,  she  muttered :  "He'll  try  to 
scrape  acquaintance.  When  he  does,  introduce  me 
to  him  as  your  wife." 

"But  to  do  that " 

He  fell  silent.  He  was  thinking  of  Anna.  For  the 
first  time  he  was  conscious  of  his  aloneness  with  this 
woman. 

Not   wishing   to    wound   her,   he  procrastinated. 


THE  ESCAPE  223 

"To  do  that  might  only  add  to  our  complications." 

"It  might."  Her  gray  eyes  struggled  to  meet 
his  gaze.  "It  isn't  likely.  He  won't  believe  you." 

"Then  what  would  be  gained?" 

"You'd  have  told  him,  without  insult,  that  he 
wasn't  wanted." 

He  glanced  out  of  the  window  at  the  rushing 
landscape.  At  last  he  spoke.  "If  there's  no  other 
way " 

She  rested  her  thin,  fine  hand  on  his  gently. 
"You're  generous.  If  the  day  ever  comes  when  you 
despise  yourself  as  I  despise  myself  to-day,  remem 
ber  that  once  you  were  able  to  make  a  wicked  woman 
believe  in  goodness — to  make  her  long  with  all  her 
heart  to  be  like  you."  Her  eyes  became  misty.  "At 
this  moment  I'm  not  far  from  redemption." 

Lunch  was  announced.  He  gave  orders  to  have 
it  served  in  his  compartment.  While  they  ate,  he 
outlined  to  her  his  plans.  He  had  asked  her  how 
long  she  expected  to  be  with  him. 

Her  reply  was  discomfortingly  vague.  "As  long 
as  you  can  endure  me." 

"Inside  of  two  months,"  he  told  her,  "I  think  I 
can  promise  you  immunity.  At  present,  according 
to  information,  Central  Europe's  starving.  With 
winter  comes  the  crisis.  I've  forseen  that.  For 
some  time  I've  been  shipping  food  to  Holland.  It's 
lying  there  in  warehouses  in  immense  quantities.  I 
have  an  entire  fleet  secretly  at  work,  plying  back 
and  forth  across  the  Atlantic.  When  the  famine 
becomes  too  acute,  I'm  prepared  to  strike  my  bar- 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 

gain.  I'll  take  railroads  and  concessions  in  ex 
change  for  bread.  Other  upstarts  have  carved  out 
kingdoms  with  armies ;  I  intend  to  conquer  mine  with 
food.  There  never  was  a  war  or  any  social  uprising 
that  wasn't  caused  by  an  empty  stomach.  Within 
three  hours  of  my  terms  having  been  accepted,  my 
trains  will  be  streaming  out  of  Holland.  Where 
they  halt,  the  flames  of  revolution  will  be  quenched. 
If  I  haven't  miscalculated,  I  shall  be  unofficial  Presi 
dent  of  the  United  States  of  Europe."  He  paused 
to  watch  his  effect.  "I've  nominated  myself,"  he 
smiled. 

His  smile  was  unreturned.  She  was  regarding 
him  with  an  expression  of  horror.  Their  roles 
seemed  reversed.  It  was  evident  that  to  her  way  of 
thinking  it  was  he  who  had  become  the  criminal  and 
she  who  was  looking  down  on  him  from  a  higher 
moral  level. 

"But  they're  starving."  Her  voice  shook  pas 
sionately.  "If  you  have  these  stores,  why  don't  you 
feed  them?  They're  dying.  So  many  of  them  are 
children!" 

"You  don't  understand."  He  tried  to  make  his 
tones  reasonable.  "I've  invested  all  my  fortune  in 
the  venture.  I'm  a  business  man.  In  business  one 
man's  calamity  is  another's  opportunity.  The  same 
is  true  of  nations." 

Seeing  that  she  still  looked  grieved,  he  patted  her 
shoulder.  "Don't  worry.  We'll  rustle  through. 
Your  life  will  be  spared." 


THE  ESCAPE  225 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  my  life."  She  spoke  con 
temptuously. 

"Then  of  what?" 

"Of  the  women  dead  of  hunger  in  the  ditches  about 
Kiev." 

As  she  rose  to  leave,  she  glanced  back  from  the 
doorway.  "There  was  a  message  I  had  to  deliver 
to  you.  Varensky's  setting  out  on  his  last  journey. 
He  hopes  to  see  you  in  Budapest.  He  told  me  to 
say,  'Soon  you  can  have  her.* ' 


n 


Thrusting  its  war-scarred  head  into  the  clouds, 
Amiens  had  been  left  behind:  they  were  skirting  the 
old  battle-line.  Though  seasons  had  come  and  van 
ished,  memories  of  tragedy  were  still  apparent. 
Shell-torn  walls  had  been  patched,  but  the  patches 
served  to  emphasize  the  ruin.  One  could  trace  in 
the  landscape  crumbling  trench-systems  and  the 
rusty  red  of  entangled  wire.  Here  and  there,  in 
gleaming  plots,  white  crosses  grew  in  humble  clusters. 
In  fancy  he  pictured  the  hosts  who  had  died.  The 
unprofitable  patience  of  their  sacrifice!  Had  they 
known  what  was  to  be  the  result,  would  they  have 
gone  to  their  death  so  gladly?  The  result  of  their 
idealism  was  hunger.  He  recalled  his  awkward 
phrase — the  world's  hunger  had  proved  to  be  his 
opportunity.  Santa's  horror  disturbed  his  memory. 
He  was  inclined  to  go  to  her  and  explain.  Every- 


226  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

thing  had  to  be  purchased  by  labor.  Anything  one 
possessed  was  the  wage  of  labor.  To  give  things 
away  did  harm.  It  wasn't  business.  It  set  a  pre 
mium  on  laziness.  Even  to  give  food  to  a  starving 
nation  did  harm ;  it  made  that  nation  a  pauper.  The 
most  primitive  of  all  laws  was  that  bread  should 
be  earned  by  the  sweat  of  the  brow — that  if  a  man 
did  not  toil,  neither  should  he  eat.  The  only  right 
eous  way  to  feed  starving  people  was  to  set  them 
to  work.  So  his  thoughts  ran  on,  building  up  the 
argument. 

But  he  did  not  go  to  her.  It  was  Varensky's 
message  that  deterred  him:  "He  told  me  to  say, 
'Soon  you  can  have  her.' '  Did  Santa  know  what 
was  meant — that  the  message  referred  to  Anna? 
She  must  know.  What  difference  would  this  make 
to  her?  She  also  loved,  and  she  was  a  panther- 
woman. 

The  countryside  grew  blurred  with  dusk.  The 
stiff,  white  crosses  faded  out  of  sight.  Forgetting 
his  danger,  he  fell  asleep,  wondering  whether  Anna 
would  be  with  her  husband  at  Budapest. 


Ill 

When  he  awoke,  he  was  in  total  darkness.  Glanc 
ing  through  the  window,  he  discovered  that  the  world 
outside  was  weakly  lit  with  straggling  rows  of 
street-lamps.  They  seemed  to  be  marching  in  the 
same  direction  as  the  train ;  in  the  far  distance  they 


THE  ESCAPE  227 

rushed  together,  making  night  hollow  with  their 
flare.  His  first  thought  was  of  Santa;  a  thousand 
things  might  have  happened. 

As  he  groped  at  the  handle  of  the  dividing  door> 
he  caught  the  sound  of  laughter. 

"May  I  enter?" 

The  Santa  whom  his  eyes  encountered  was  no 
longer  the  fugitive  from  justice.  She  was  mysteri 
ously  changed.  There  was  animation  in  her  counte* 
nance  and  seduction  in  her  voice.  She  was  again 
the  enchantress  of  men,  reckless  and  tender,  who  had 
all  but  captured  his  heart  on  the  Atlantic  voyage. 
He  looked  to  see  what  had  caused  this  transforma 
tion.  Lolling  in  the  entrance  was  the  handsome 
stranger. 

Before  Hindwood  could  speak,  she  was  addressing 
him  gaily.  "So  you've  wakened !  I  didn't  like  to 
disturb  you.  You've  almost  made  me  miss  my  din 
ner.  If  you're  ready  now 

The  stranger  interrupted.  "I've  not  dined.  But 
I  have  my  place  reserved.  If  there  should  prove  to 
be  no  room,  perhaps  you  would  flatter  me  by  occu 
pying  my  place  instead." 

Santa  shook  her  head  graciously.  "It's  good  of 
you,  but  my  husband  and  I  will  take  our  chance." 

She  was  the  only  one  whom  her  claim  that  Hind- 
wood  was  her  husband  left  undisturbed.  The  two 
men  glared  at  each  other  in  astonishment.  It  was 
the  stranger  who  recovered  first. 

"If  I  had  known  that  this  lady  was  your  wife,  I 
should  have  asked  your  permission  before  I  made 


228  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

my  offer.  I  shall  be  very  happy  if  you  will  permit 
me  to  do  you  both  this  service.  I  ought  to  intro 
duce  myself." 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocketbook  and  produced  a 
card  on  which  was  engraved,  "Captain  Serge  Lajos, 
Hungarian  Royal  Hussars." 

"My  name  is  Hindwood — Philip  Hindwood." 
Hindwood  returned  the  compliment  surlily.  "I 
agree  with  my  wife;  we  both  prefer  that  you  retain 
your  place  and  that  we  be  allowed  to  take  our 
chance." 

Santa  rose  eagerly  to  prevent  the  giving  of  fur 
ther  offense.  Her  smile  was  for  the  Captain.  "We 
•waste  time  talking.  You'll  join  us,  Captain?  We'll 
take  our  chance  together." 

Without  risking  a  reply,  she  led  the  way,  Hind- 
wood  following  and  the  Captain  coming  last.  There 
was  no  opportunity  for  speech  in  the  swaying  corri 
dor.  When  the  dining-car  was  reached,  they  were 
shown  immediately  to  a  vacant  table. 

At  first  they  sat  in  silence,  watching  how  the  lights 
flashing  by  the  panes  were  strengthening  into  a 
golden  blur. 

"Where  are  we?" 

It  was  Hindwood  who  had  decided  to  be  amiable. 

"Entering  Paris." 

"So  late  as  that !"  He  consulted  his  watch.  "We 
go  through  without  changing,  they  told  us.'* 

"There's  no  change  till  Vienna." 

The  Captain's  answers  were  mechanical.  He 
seemed  to  be  brushing  aside  a  presence  that  an- 


THE  ESCAPE  229 

noyed  him.     His  puzzled  eyes  were  fixed  on  Santa. 

Suppressing  his  irritation,  Hindwood  made  an 
other  effort  at  friendliness.  "I  didn't  notice  you  till 
we  were  getting  into  Calais.  I  guess  we  must  have 
traveled  together  from  London." 

Captain  Lajos,  if  that  really  was  his  name, 
seemed  to  be  thinking  of  something  else.  He  let 
some  seconds  elapse.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  with 
out  looking  up.  "I  noticed  you  from  the  first.  I 
can  prove  it.  Your  wife  didn't  join  you  till  Dover." 
Then  he  seemed  to  repent  of  his  intrusive  rudeness 
and  changed  the  subject.  "I  was  glad  to  see  the 
last  of  London.  I'd  been  sent  to  meet  some  one 
who  failed  to  arrive.  It  was  all  in  the  papers.  You 
probably  know  as  much  about  the  circumstances  as 
I  do.  The  person  was  Prince  Rogovich." 

Santa's  face  went  white.  Her  lips  became  set  in 
an  artificial  smile.  Beneath  the  table  her  hand 
clutched  Hindwood's.  For  all  that,  it  was  she  who 
took  up  the  challenge. 

"We've  not  been  reading  the  papers  lately." 
Above  the  clatter  of  the  wheels,  her  trembling  voice 
was  scarcely  audible.  "My  husband  and  I  have 
been  very  busy  and —  But  your  friend,  why  was 
he  so  unkind  as  to  disappoint  you?" 

The  Captain  had  turned  to  her  as  though  greedy 
for  her  sympathy.  His  dark,  bold  eyes  drank  up 
her  face. 

"He  wasn't  unkind.  He  was He  shrugged 

his  shoulders  and  spread  abroad  his  hands.  "Until 
something  is  proved,  I  suppose  the  best  way  to  ex- 


930  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

press  it  would  be  to  say  that  he  was  unavoidably 
delayed.  He  left  New  York  on  a  liner  and  disap 
peared  on  the  evening  that  he  should  have  landed." 

Hindwood  bent  forward,  attempting  to  divert  at 
tention  from  Santa.  He  tapped  the  Captain's 
hand. 

"Excuse  me  for  intruding  on  a  conversation  which 
you  evidently  intend  to  include  only  my  wife,  but 
there  are  no  points  of  call  on  an  Atlantic  voyage. 
If  your  friend  started  from  New  York  and  the  ship 
was  not  lost,  how  could  he  have  been  delayed?" 

"How?     That's  the  question." 

The  Captain's  hostility  was  unmistakable,  and  yet 
the  odd  thing  was  that  it  exempted  Santa. 

While  the  first  course  was  being  served,  Hindwood 
racked  his  brains  to  discover  the  motive  which  lay 
behind  the  Captain's  attitude.  Was  he  a  police- 
agent,  amusing  himself  and  biding  his  time?  Was  he 
doubtful  of  Santa's  identity  and  cultivating  her  ac 
quaintance  as  a  means  of  making  certain?  Was  he 
inerely  a  disappointed  male,  infuriated  at  finding  a 
husband  in  possession? 

Santa  was  speaking  again.  She  had  made  good 
use  of  the  respite  to  compose  herself.  "It  must  have 
been  terribly  anxious  for  you  waiting.  I  suppose 
you  were  there  to  meet  him  at  the  port  where  he 
ought  to  have  arrived?" 

Hindwood  held  his  breath.  She  was  practically 
asking  the  man  whether  he  had  been  one  of  the  wel 
coming  group  of  officials  on  that  night  when  the 
Ryndam  had  reached  Plymouth.  If  he  had  been,  he 


THE  ESCAPE  231 

must  have  seen  them.  He  must  remember  them.  He 
might  even  know  their  biographical  details,  their 
business,  and  that  they  were  not  married.  At  all 
events,  if  that  were  the  case,  it  would  explain  the 
keenness  of  his  interest. 

"No,  I  wasn't  at  Plymouth." 

They  both  shot  upright  in  their  chairs  and  sat 
rigid.  For  a  moment  they  had  no  doubt  that  the 
Captain  had  declared  his  hand. 

Then  he  postponed  the  crisis  by  adding,  "You  see, 
my  friend,  as  you  call  him,  was  traveling  by  the 
Holland-American  Line,  so  Plymouth  was  where  he 
should  have  landed.  We  had  a  special  train  ar 
ranged  to  hurry  him  to  London.  The  first  warning 
I  received  of  the  disaster  was  at  Paddington,  when 
I  was  informed  that  the  special  train  had  been  can 
celed." 

"Then  it  was  a  disaster?" 

Santa  asked  the  question  in  an  awed  tone  which, 
under  the  circumstances,  was  not  altogether  feigned. 
Getting  a  grip  on  herself,  she  leaned  across  the 
table,  making  her  eyes  large  and  tender.  "We're 
fellow-travelers,  chance-met.  My  husband  and  I  are 
Americans ;  when  we  part  from  you,  it's  almost  cer 
tain  we  shall  never  meet  again.  I'm  not  seeking 
your  confidence,  but  you're  worried.  If  it  would 
help  you  to  tell " 

The  Captain  shook  his  head  gravely.  He  ap 
peared  to  be  worshiping  her  in  everything  save 
words,  though  it  was  possible  that  his  adoration 
was  mockery.  "There's  nothing  to  tell.  Not  yet. 


232  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

I  wish  there  were.  There  may  be  something  at 
Paris.  The  English  police  are  working.  They 
promised  to  keep  in  touch  with  me  by  telegram." 

With  amazing  daring  Santa  persisted,  "But  what 
do  you  suppose  happened?" 

Before  answering  the  Captain  arranged  his  knife 
and  fork  neatly  on  his  plate.  He  looked  up  sharply 
like  a  bird  of  prey.  "Murder.  To  your  dainty  ears 
that  must  sound  shocking.  I  have  reasons  for  this 
belief  which,  for  the  present,  I'm  not  at  liberty  to 
share." 

During  the  pause  that  followed  Hindwood  was 
on  tenterhooks  lest,  with  her  next  question,  she 
should  betray  herself.  To  prevent  her,  he  flung 
himself  into  the  gap. 

"I  agree  with  you,"  he  said  with  weighty  dullness. 
"I  agree  with  you  that  some  sort  of  accident  strikes 
one  as  extremely  likely.  You  mentioned  that  a  spe 
cial  had  been  chartered  to  bring  your  friend  to 
London.  That  would  indicate  that  he  was  a  person 
of  consequence." 

"He  was." 

The  words  sounded  like  an  epitaph.  They  were 
spoken  with  the  impatience  of  a  door  being  banged. 

Turning  to  Santa,  the  Captain  was  on  the  point 
of  saying  something  further,  when  the  waiter  ap 
proached  with  the  information  that  at  the  next 
stop  the  dining-car  would  be  cut  off.  They  became 
aware  that  they  were  the  only  diners  left.  The 
train  was  slowing  down.  The  noise  of  its  progress 
had  changed  to  a  hollow  rumbling,  which  told  them 


THE  ESCAPE  233 

that  a  bridge  was  being  crossed.  Shifting  their 
gaze,  they  discovered  Paris,  sparkling  like  a  pile  of 
jewels  strewn  in  the  lap  of  night.  Below  them  in 
slow  coils,  mysterious  with  luminous  reflections, 
wound  the  Seine.  Hindwood's  instant  thought  was 
that  somewhere  out  there  beneath  the  darkness,  the 
woods  of  Vincennes  were  hiding. 

Having  paid  their  bill,  they  commenced  the  re 
turn  journey  through  corridors  dense  with  eager 
passengers.  Before  their  section  had  been  reached, 
the  train  was  in  the  station.  At  the  first  open  door, 
the  Captain  sprang  to  the  platform  and  was  lost. 

"Where's  he  gone?"  Santa  whispered. 

Hindwood  glanced  at  her  palely.  "To  get  his  tele 
gram.  To  get " 

Seizing  her  arm,  he  hurried  her  back  to  his  com 
partment,  where  behind  locked  doors  they  could 
spend  in  private  whatever  of  freedom  remained. 


IV 


"The  jig's  up." 

Hoping  that  he  was  creating  an  impression  of 
calmness,  he  lit  a  cigarette.  She  raised  her  face  to 
his  with  a  softness  in  her  eyes  that  he  had  never 
noticed. 

"If  it  is,'*  she  pleaded,  clutching  at  his  hands, 
"swear  you  hadn't  the  least  idea  who  I  really  am. 
Disown  me.  Act  as  though  my  arrest  had  come  to 
you  as  an  utter  shock.'* 


234  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

He  seated  himself  beside  her.  "But,  my  dear 
Santa,  that  wouldn't  help  you." 

"Help  me !  Of  course  not,"  she  agreed  with  rapid 
vehemence.  "If  I'm  caught,  I'm  beyond  helping. 
It's  of  you  I'm  thinking — you,  with  your  generosity 
and  your  splendid  plans.  If  I  dragged  you  down, 
as  I  dragged  down  all  the  others,  my  heart  would 
break.  I  never  meant  you  any  harm.  You  do  be 
lieve  me?" 

"I  do  now." 

"Say  you  know  that  I've  loved  you,"  she  urged. 
And,  when  he  hesitated,  "Quickly.  Time's  running 
short.  Let  me  hear  you  say  just  once,  'Santa,  I 
know  that  you've  loved  me.' ' 

"Santa,  I  know " 

"You  wouldn't  kiss  me?"  She  asked  the  question 
scarcely  above  her  breath.  "There've  been  so  many 
who  paid  to  kiss  me.  You  wouldn't  give  me  the  best, 
that  would  be  the  last?" 

When  his  lips  touched  hers,  she  smiled. 

"They  may  come  now." 

Minutes  dragged  by  like  hours.  Every  sound  was 
magnified  into  something  monstrous.  A  dozen  times 
they  imagined  they  heard  police  clearing  the  cor 
ridor,  preparatory  to  bursting  in  the  door.  What 
they  heard  was  only  newly-arrived  passengers  and 
porters  disposing  of  their  baggage.  At  last  sus 
pense  became  its  own  anesthetic. 

"Did  he  tell  you  his  destination?"  Hindwood 
whispered. 

Not  daring  to  speak,  she  shook  her  head. 


THE  ESCAPE  235 

"Why  did  you  get  into  conversation  with  him?" 

Her  lips  scarcely  moved.  He  had  to  listen 
acutely. 

"I  didn't.  He  pretended  to  have  mistaken  his 
compartment.  I  was  crying.  He  saw." 

"Why  were  you  crying?" 

"Because  of  you." 

"And  you  told  him?" 

"Not  exactly." 

"What  did  he  say?  I  heard  you  laughing  when  I 
entered.  How  did  he  commence?" 

"He  said  I  was  too  beautiful  to  be  unhappy — it's 
the  way  every  man  starts.  Then  he  said  that  he'd 
recognized  me,  just  as  though  he'd  been  looking  for 
me  always.  And  then  he  tortured  me  by  wondering 
whether  our  paths  had  ever  crossed." 

"And  you  answered?" 

"Never — unless  he'd  seen  me  in  America." 

Hindwood  fell  silent.  Without  warning  he  leaped 
to  his  feet.  Before  he  could  escape,  she  was  cling 
ing  to  him. 

"Don't  leave  me  to  face  them."  ^ 

"I'm  not."  He  freed  himself  from  her  grasp. 
"If  I've  guessed  right,  you  won't  have  to  face  them." 

With  that  he  was  gone. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed:  he  had  not  re 
turned.  Nothing  that  she  dreaded  had  happened. 
With  a  lurch  the  train  jerked  forward.  Farewells 
were  being  shouted.  Station-lamps  streamed  past, 
the  scarcer  lights  of  freight-yards,  then  at  last  the 
glow-worm  warmth  of  a  city  under  darkness. 


236  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

The  door  opened.  She  rose  trembling,  steadying 
herself  against  the  wall.  When  she  saw  who  it  was, 
she  sank  back.  "Tell  me." 

"We  were  on  the  wrong  track."  He  spoke  lei 
surely.  "Captain  Lajos  wasn't  lying.  I  followed 
him.  He  met  his  man  with  the  telegram.  He  sus 
pects  us  so  little  that  he  showed  it  to  me.  It  read, 
'No  further  developments.' ' 

"Thank  God."  She  pressed  her  handkerchief  to 
her  lips.  And  then,  "Why  should  he  have  shown 
it  to  you?  It  was  to  put  us  off  our  guard." 

He  sat  down  in  the  seat  opposite.  "I  think  not. 
He's  changed  his  tactics.  He's  made  up  his  mind 
to  be  friendly.  It's  you  he's  after,  but  in  a  different 
fashion.  He  thinks  he's  in  love  with  you." 

"But  he  threatened " 

"No.  It  was  our  own  guilty  conscience.  Here's 
how  I  figure  it  out.  He  probably  has  seen  you  be 
fore.  He  can't  remember  where.  It  may  have  been 
in  the  days  when  you  were  dancing.  It  was  the 
vague  recollection  of  you  that  piqued  his  curiosity 
and  got  him  staring.  When  he  found  you  alone  and 
crying,  he  thought  he'd  stumbled  on  an  adventure. 
My  entering  upset  his  calculations.  I  became  for 
him  the  cruel  husband;  he  hated  me  on  the  spot. 
My  dear  Santa,  our  meeting  with  him  is  the  luckiest 
thing  that  could  have  happened." 

Dabbing  her  eyes,  she  tried  to  laugh.  "I  don't 
see  it." 

"It's  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff."  He  bent  forward, 
lowering  his  voice.  "He  was  mixed  up  with  Prince 


THE  ESCAPE  237 

Rogovich.  He's  one  of  the  people  who's  hunting 
for  you.  In  his  company  you  won't  be  suspected. 
He'll  get  you  across  all  the  frontiers." 

She  was  still  reluctantly  incredulous.  "But  the 
things  he  said  at  dinner.  He  played  with  us  like 
a  cat." 

"He  wasn't  playing  with  us."  Hindwood  became 
eager  in  his  determination  to  convince  her.  "He 
was  playing  into  our  hands.  He  knows  all  the  things 
that  we  want  to  know.  Every  move  the  police  make 
is  telegraphed  to  him.  It  was  the  frankness  with 
which  he  let  us  into  his  secrets  that  was  so  alarm- 
ing." 

"Then  how  must  we  act?" 

"The  way  we  have  been  acting.  Until  it's  safe  to 
be  rid  of  him,  we  must  keep  him  believing  that  we're 
married,  and  none  too  happily.  I'm  afraid  it's  up 
to  you  to  keep  him  lulled  by  pretending 

"Don't";  she  closed  her  eyes.  "It's  like  going 
back  to  the  ugly  past." 

"It's  beastly,  I  know."  He  spoke  seriously.  "But 

what  else ?  Any  moment  he  may  recall  where 

last  he  saw  you.  Sleep  over  it.  We  can  decide  in 
the  morning." 


All  night  he  had  been  haunted  by  the  oppressive 
sense  that,  if  he  did  not  watch,  something  terrible 
would  happen.  It  was  shortly  after  dawn  when  he 
rose.  Stepping  into  the  corridor  he  found  that  he 


238  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

had  the  train  to  himself.  It  seemed  as  depopulated 
as  an  early  morning  house  and,  despite  the  clamor 
of  its  going,  as  silent.  He  placed  himself  near 
Santa's  door  and  stood  staring  out  at  the  misty 
landscape  streaking  past  like  a  trail  of  smoke.  It 
was  here  that  Santa  found  him  when  she  slipped 
from  her  compartment. 

He  turned  quickly.  "He's  not  up  yet."  Then, 
noticing  her  pallor  and  the  shadows  under  her  eyes, 
"You  haven't  slept?" 

"Not  much." 

"Making  your  decision,  I  suppose?" 

She  bit  her  lip  nervously.  "I  shall  have  to  pre 
tend It'll  only  be  pretending.  You'll  under 
stand?" 

"It  won't  last  long,"  he  comforted  her.  "If  we've 
been  running  on  time,  we  must  be  in  Alsace-Lorraine 
already.  Within  the  next  few  hours  we'll  be  out  of 
France  and  into  Germany.  You'll  feel  safer  there, 
won't  you?" 

What  he  was  really  asking  was  whether  it  wasn't 
true  that  during  the  war  she'd  been  a  German  spy. 

"Shall  I?"  was  all  she  answered. 

They  fell  silent.  Without  mentioning  it,  each 
guessed  the  motive  which  had  occasioned  the  other's 
early  rising.  They  dared  not  let  the  Captain  out 
of  their  sight.  While  they  could  not  see  him,  they 
had  no  peace  of  mind.  Whereas  yesterday  his  com 
panionship  had  seemed  to  spell  death,  to-day  it  spelt 
protection.  Yesterday  they  had  done  everything  to 
elude  him ;  to-day  it  would  probably  be  he  who  would 


THE  ESCAPE  239 

do  the  avoiding.  It  was  essential  that  they  should 
have  won  his  confidence  before  they  arrived  on  Ger 
man  soil.  There  was  little  time  to  lose.  He  had  not 
appeared  when  the  first  sitting  for  breakfast  was 
announced. 

In  the  restaurant  car  they  dawdled  over  their  meal 
and  sat  on  long  after  it  was  ended.  They  had  even 
begun  to  discuss  the  possibility  of  his  having  left 
the  train  during  the  night,  when  with  an  eagerness 
kindred  to  their  own  he  entered.  Hindwood  waved 
to  him. 

"I'm  afraid  we've  finished.  But  won't  you  seat 
yourself  at  our  table?  I've  no  doubt  my  wife  will 
join  you  in  a  cup  of  coffee.  While  you  breakfast, 
if  it's  not  objectionable,  I'll  smoke  a  cigarette." 

Captain  Lajos  beamed  like  a  pleased  boy.  If  one 
wasn't  prejudiced  in  his  disfavor,  it  was  possible  to 
find  him  likable.  "I  shall  be  delighted,"  he  said  in 
an  embarrassed  tone.  "Journeys  are  tedious  now 
adays.  Once  every  one  who  counted  was  gay  and 
prosperous ;  one  was  never  at  a  loss  to  find  a  friend. 
To-day,  in  this  bankrupt  world,  the  only  travelers 
are  money-lenders  and  pawn-brokers."  He  laughed. 
"I  may  as  well  confess :  I  didn't  think  you  were  up 
yet — that's  what  made  me  late.  I  was  so  tired  of 
my  own  society  that  I  was  waiting  for  you." 

As  he  said,  "I  was  waiting  for  you,"  his  eyes 
flashed  on  Santa. 

It  was  she  who  spoke.  "I  fancy  we've  been  just 
as  bored  with  ourselves  and  even  more  eager  to  meet 
you.  What  you  told  us  last  night  sounded  so  mys- 


240  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

terious  and  romantic.  I  could  hardly  sleep  for 
thinking  about  it.  To  have  a  Prince  for  one's  friend 
and  to  travel  so  far  to  welcome  him,  only  to 

find "  She  clasped  her  hands  childishly.  "Life 

can  be  so  drab — how  drab,  a  man  of  your  kind  can 
ne\er  know.  American  husbands,  no  matter  what 
they  possess,  take  a  pride  in  always  working.'* 

He  disappointed  her  curiosity  with  a  crooked 
smile.  "Whether  you're  a  Prince  or  a  millionaire, 
there's  nothing  romantic  about  being  murdered." 

Then  her  allurement  kindled  the  longing  in  his 
eyes.  "You're  wanting  me  to  confide  the  secrets  that 
I  warned  you  I  couldn't  share.  Surely  you  must 
know  something  of  Prince  Rogovich?" 

"No.  Truly."  She  returned  his  searching  gaze 
with  apparent  frankness. 

Hindwood  jogged  her  elbow.  "My  dear,  I've  re 
membered.  When  we  sailed  there  was  a  Prince 
Rogovich  in  the  States,  doing  his  best  to  raise  a 
loan — I  think  it  was  for  Poland.  It  was  rumored 
that  the  money  was  to  be  squandered  on  military 
adventures.  I  guess  he  didn't  find  many  takers. 
You're  in  the  Hungarian  Hussars,  Captain,  but  you 
must  excuse  me  for  stating  that  on  our  side  of  the 
Atlantic  we've  seen  all  we  want  of  armies." 

Santa  clicked  her  tongue  impatiently.  "That's 
all  very  well,  but  it  doesn't  explain  why  the 
Prince " 

"It  might,"  Hindwood  insisted  mildly.  "Discour 
aged  men  often  commit  suicide.  He  was  coming 
home.  He'd  failed  in  his  object " 


"He  hadn't."  The  Captain  glanced  quickly  be 
hind  him  to  see  whether  any  one  could  have  heard 
him.  He  continued  in  a  voice  that  was  little  above 
a  whisper,  "Only  a  few  of  us  knew.  He  was  coming 
home  in  triumph." 

Leaning  across  the  table  with  suppressed  excite 
ment,  Santa  made  the  appeal  of  pretty  women 
throughout  the  ages.  "I  wish  you'd  trust  me." 

Hindwood  pushed  back  his  chair.  "It's  time  for 
a  cigar.  Perhaps  you'll  join  me  later.  If  you'll 
excuse  me " 

They  paid  him  scant  attention.  The  last  he  saw 
of  them  they  were  gazing  enraptured  into  each 
other's  eyes. 


VI 


It  was  well  over  an  hour  since  he  had  returned 
to  his  compartment.  He  had  left  his  door  wide, 
so  that  he  could  inspect  every  one  who  passed  along 
the  corridor.  They  couldn't  have  slipped  by  with 
out  his  noticing.  He  was  becoming  almost  as  dis 
trustful  of  Santa  as  he  was  of  the  stranger. 
Already  the  role  of  unwanted  husband  was  growing 
irksome.  The  thing  that  baffled  him  most  was  her 
morbid  curiosity.  It  was  revolting  to  think  of  her, 
with  her  disarming  air  of  refinement,  encouraging 
her  admirer  to  conjecture  the  details  of  a  crime 
which  she  herself  had  committed.  But  how  had 
she  committed  it?  He  himself  did  not  know.  He 
had  just  begun  to  contrive  the  scene  in  his  mind 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 

when  they  entered.  Her  face  was  lit  with  a  new 
intensity.  At  a  glance  he  was  aware  that  whatever 
she  had  learned  had  quickened  her  emotions.  The 
Captain  followed  grudgingly,  like  a  dog  hanging 
back  on  a  chain. 

"Captain  Lajos  has  been  telling  me,"  she  com 
menced.  "But  we'd  better  have  the  door  closed. 
He's  been  telling  me  things  that  you  ought  to  know. 
He's  so  concerned  for  my  sake  that  he's  offered  to 
repeat  them." 

The  Captain  seated  himself  opposite  to  Hind- 
wood  and  regarded  him  gravely.  "The  things  that 
I've  been  telling  your  wife  are  not  my  secrets.  I 
must  ask  you  to  give  me  your  solemn  promise." 

"You  may  take  that  for  granted." 

"And  there's  one  other  point.  I  didn't  offer  to 
repeat  them ;  it  was  Mrs.  Hindwood  who  urged  me. 
I'm  making  this  plain  because  I  don't  want  you  to 
think  I'm  offering  you  my  advice  uninvited." 

Hindwood  lit  a  fresh  cigar,  fortifying  himself 
against  whatever  shock  was  pending.  "I  give  you 
full  credit  for  your  motives." 

"Then  let  me  ask  you  a  question.  Have  you  no 
ticed  that  there  are  scarcely  any  women  on  this 
train?" 

"I  believe  you're  right.  But  until  you  mentioned 
it  I  hadn't  noticed." 

"Well,  if  you'll  watch,  you'll  see  that  I'm  cor 
rect.  There  are  women  and  children  in  plenty  on 
trains  moving  westward.  But  on  trains  moving  east 
ward,  where  we're  going — no." 


THE  ESCAPE  243 

Hindwood  watched  the  man  intently,  wondering 
at  what  he  was  driving. 

"Would  you  be  surprised,"  he  continued,  "if  I 
were  to  tell  you  that  one  of  the  chief  reasons  for 
the  women's  absence  is  this  affair  of  Prince  Rogo- 
vich?" 

"You  rather  harp  on  Prince  Rogovich,  don't 
you?"  Hindwood  nicked  his  ash.  "After  a  time  one 
ceases  to  be  surprised  at  anything.  But  aren't  you 
presuming  too  much  in  insisting  on  his  having  been 
murdered?  All  that's  known  by  your  own  account 
is  that  he's  vanished.  In  any  case,  what  can  he 
possibly  have  to  do  with  the  scarcity  of  women  on 
trains  running  eastward?" 

"Everything."  The  Captain's  face  darkened  with 
earnestness.  "What  I'm  trying  to  tell  you  is  that 
you're  taking  your  wife  into  danger.  Every  man 
who  can  afford  it,  in  the  countries  to  which  you're 
going,  is  hurrying  his  women-folk  to  France,  Eng 
land,  Spain,  America  —  anywhere  westward  for 
safety.  They  can  feel  the  storm  rising,  the  deluge 
of  catastrophe  that  can't  be  held  back  much  longer. 
When  it  bursts,  it'll  tear  everything  established 
from  its  moorings  and  sweep  across  Europe  in  a 
wave  of  savagery." 

"And  this  deluge  that  you  speak  of — what  had 
Prince  Rogovich  to  do  with  it?" 

"He  was  keeping  it  from  bursting." 

Hindwood  smiled.     "Alone?" 

"No  man's  single  strength  could  accomplish  that. 
He  was  one  of  the  most  powerful  of  the  resisting 


244  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

forces.  When  society's  tottering,  it's  the  little 
added  strain  that  upsets  the  equilibrium.  Remem 
ber  how  the  last  war  started,  with  an  obscure  as 
sassination." 

Hindwood  crossed  his  knees  and  dug  himself  back 
into  the  cushions.  "Your  information,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  is  strangely  melodramatic.  If  I  under 
stand  you  aright,  you're  urging  me  to  discontinue 
my  journey.  Can't  you  be  more  explicit?" 

"I  can."  The  Captain  betrayed  a  hint  of  tem 
per.  "I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  if  I'm  to  convince 
you.  The  stability  of  the  whole  of  Central  and 
Eastern  Europe  has  been  upset  by  the  repartition- 
ing  of  the  Peace  Treaty.  The  situation  as  it  exists 
to-day  is  intolerable.  The  ruin  which  the  war  com 
menced  has  been  completed  by  the  pacification.  The 
old  social  order  has  been  overthrown ;  in  its  place  we 
have  a  dozen  rash  experiments.  In  Russia,  instead 
of  the  Czar,  we  have  Bolshevism.  In  what  was  once 
the  Austro-Hungarian  Empire  we  have  a  series  of 
Republics,  which  are  nothing  more  than  old  racial 
hatreds  entrenched  behind  newly  created  frontiers. 
In  Poland,  which  was  prisoner  to  three  nations  for 
two  centuries,  we  have  a  released  convict,  vengeful 
with  a  sense  of  past  injustice.  Instead  of  recon 
struction,  we  have  disorganization.  Trade  is  at  a 
standstill.  Money  is  valueless.  Confidence  is  gone. 
Poverty  has  made  a  clean  sweep  of  class  distinctions. 
Mob-rule  has  usurped  the  rights  of  authority.  Like 
a  lean  wolf,  famine  gallops  through  the  desolation 
in  ever  widening  circles." 


THE  ESCAPE  245 

"But  Prince  Rogovich?"  Hindwood  recalled  him. 
"What  had  he  to  do  with  it?" 

"He  was  the  leader  of  the  monarchist  party  in 
Europe — the  organizer  of  a  secret  movement  to  set 
up  again  the  thrones  which  war  has  toppled.  Inci 
dentally  he  was  to  have  established  a  new  throne  for 
himself  in  Poland.  Behind  him  he  had  the  land 
owning  classes  and  the  old  aristocracy,  which  the 
new  regime  of  haphazard  democracy  has  beggared. 
He  was  biding  his  time  till  the  crisis  should  become 
sufficiently  acute  for  him  to  strike  his  blow.  He  had 
his  armies  ready.  All  he  lacked  was  munitions.  The 
floating  of  the  loan  in  America  completed  his  pro 
gram.'* 

"But  you  said  that  the  fact  that  he  was  returning 
in  triumph  was  known  only  to  a  few.  If  only  a  few 
knew  it,  why  should  his  death  have  caused  this  sud 
den  exodus  of  women  on  trains  running  westward?" 

"For  two  reasons :  because  he  was  the  recognized 
strong  man  of  the  buffer  states  which  lie  between 
Russian  anarchy  and  civilization;  and  because  tHe 
crisis  of  starvation,  for  which  he  had  been  waiting, 
is  now  in  sight.  While  Bolshevism  was  making  its 
drives  against  Poland,  Central  Europe  was  com 
pelled  to  hold  together.  Now  that  Bolshevism  is 
crumbling,  that  compulsion  is  relaxed.  All  the  way 
from  Siberia  to  the  frontiers  of  Germany  millions 
are  perishing  from  lack  of  food.  Presently  the  Rus 
sian  millions  will  commence  to  march  westward  to 
the  lands  of  plenty.  They'll  march  like  Death,  swing 
ing  his  scythe.  They'll  sweep  on  like  a  pestilence. 


246  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

They'll  lope  like  gaunt  wolves,  savage  and  relent 
less.  The  starving  peoples  of  Central  Europe,  who 
would  once  have  resisted  them,  will  join  them. 
Prince  Rogovich,  had  he  lived,  could  have  prevented 
them." 

"How?"     It  was  Santa. 

"He  would  have  declared  a  new  war,  with  the  re 
turn  to  monarchy  as  his  battle-cry.  He  had  his 
nucleus  armies  in  readiness ;  they  would  have  sprung 
from  their  hiding-places  overnight.  There  would 
have  been  a  tremendous  rally  to  him  as  the  only  man 
unscrupulous  enough  to  handle  the  situation.  He 
would  have  made  his  bargain  with  the  Allies." 

"And  then?" 

"He  would  have  trained  his  guns  on  the  lean 
hordes  of  Russia  and  would  have  blown  them  back 
across  their  borders." 

Again  Santa  spoke.  Her  voice  came  low  and 
haltingly.  "He  would  have  made  the  world  pass 
through  the  fires  of  Moloch  for  a  second  time.  The 
person  who  murdered  him  must  have  known  it." 

Hindwood  turned  to  her.  There  was  a  startled 
expression  in  his  eyes.  He  was  quite  certain  she 
had  known  it.  He  was  seeing  the  real  Santa  for  the 
first  time.  She  was  a  Charlotte  Corday,  who  had 
dipped  her  hands  in  blood  that  she  might  prevent  a 
more  colossal  crime. 

"I  begin  to  see,"  he  muttered. 

The  Captain  took  the  words  as  addressed  to  him 
self.  "I'm  glad  you  do.  It  must  be  obvious  to  you 
now  that  where  you're  going  is  no  place  for  a 


THE  ESCAPE  247 

woman.  If  you'll  accept  my  advice,  you'll  turn 
back  at  the  next  stopping-place." 

"Impossible."  Hindwood  recalled  himself  to  the 
part  he  was  playing.  "You're  a  soldier;  you'd  be 
ashamed  to  run  away  at  the  first  hint  of  danger.  In 
a  sense  I  also  am  a  soldier,  a  soldier  of  business.  I, 
too,  have  my  marching  orders  and  my  duty." 

"Then  if  you  won't  turn  back  yourself,  send  Mrs. 
Hindwood  back."  The  man's  voice  shook.  "You're 
taking  her  to  almost  certain  death.  She's  too  beauti 
ful — I  beg  it  of  you." 

To  his  amazement  Hindwood  found  himself  liking 
the  stranger.  "My  wife's  beauty  has  no  bearing 
on  the  problem.  We're  exceedingly  grateful  to  you, 
Captain  Lajos;  but  to  act  on  your  warning — it's 
out  of  the  question." 

The  Captain  shot  him  a  dark  look,  then  let  his  gaze 
rest  on  Santa.  When  she  kept  her  eyes  averted, 
he  pretended  to  lose  interest  in  the  subject.  The 
train  was  slowing  down.  He  cleared  the  pane  with 
his  glove. 

"It's   the  frontier." 

Hindwood  rose  and  hurriedly  commenced  to  gather 
together  his  belongings.  Sitting  perfectly  still  with 
an  air  of  quiet  criticism,  the  Captain  watched  him. 
When  the  last  bag  had  been  strapped  and  made  ready 
for  removal,  "Why  are  you  doing  that?"  he  inquired. 

"The  German  Customs.  I  suppose  we'll  have 
to  get  out  and  go  through  the  old  jog-trot  of  being 
inspected." 

"You  don't  need  to;  you  can  have  it  done  here. 


248  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

Excuse  me,  if  I  seem  officious.  I  was  immediately  be 
hind  you  at  Calais  and  couldn't  help  noticing  that 
your  passports  are  the  same  as  mine — diplomatic. 
The  advantage  of  a  diplomatic  passport  in  crossing 
frontiers  is  that  the  officials  have  to  come  to  you." 

"I  didn't  know.     If  that's  the  case—" 

He  resumed  his  seat  with  a  sickening  sensation. 
The  Captain's  presence  was  stifling  him.  He  longed 
to  escape,  if  it  were  only  for  five  minutes.  He  felt 
choked  with  lies.  It  seemed  impossible  that  the 
Captain  should  not  be  aware  of  the  atmosphere  of 
falsehood. 

Passengers  were  already  filing  down  the  corridor 
and  being  herded  by  soldiers  on  the  platform.  As 
carriages  were  emptied,  doors  were  locked  and  sealed. 
Evidently  nothing  was  to  be  left  to  chance;  while 
the  passengers  were  held  prisoners  in  the  waiting- 
rooms,  the  train  was  to  be  searched  from  end  to  end. 
To  a  guilty  conscience  there  was  something  exceed 
ingly  intimidating  about  this  military  display  of 
thoroughness. 

The  wagon-lits  conductor  looked  into  the  com 
partment.  Seeing  the  three  of  them  seated  there,  he 
burst  into  a  frantic  protest.  Captain  Lajos  anni 
hilated  him  with  the  ferocity  of  his  explanation. 
When  the  conductor  had  retreated,  the  Captain 
turned  to  Hindwood. 

"Like  most  of  your  compatriots,  I  see  you're  not 
strong  on  languages.  If  I  can  be  of  use  to  you, 
I'll  act  as  your  interpreter." 

"My  wife  is —        Then  he  remembered  that  he 


THE  ESCAPE  249 

knew  nothing  of  Santa's  linguistic  attainments. 
"You're  very  thoughtful  of  our  comfort,"  he  sub 
stituted. 

Guttural  voices  sounded.  Two  crop-headed  ex- 
drill-sergeants  presented  themselves.  Without  waste 
of  words  they  rasped  out  a  peremptory  order. 

"They  want  to  see  your  passports,"  the  Captain 
interpreted. 

While  the  passports  were  being  examined,  there 
was  silence.  Again  questions  were  asked  and  again 
the  Captain  interpreted. 

"Are  you  carrying  fire-arms?" 

"Have   you    any    contraband?" 

"Do  you  intend  to  stay  in  Germany?" 

There  was  a  pause.  The  passports  were  folded 
and  on  the  point  of  being  returned  when  another  un 
intelligible  conversation  started. 

The  Captain  smiled.  "They're  punctilious.  As  a 
matter  of  form,  they  want  to  hear  you  assert 
that  you're  the  Philip  Hindwood  to  whom  this  pass 
port  was  issued." 

"Most  certainly.  They  can  prove  that  by  com 
paring  my  face  with  the  attached  photograph." 

The  Captain  turned  to  Santa  with  the  utmost 
suavity.  "And  that  you're  the  Edith  Jones,  Mr. 
Hindwood's  secretary." 

Having  exploded  his  bomb,  he  rose.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  seemed  to  hesitate  as  to  whether  he  should 
expose  them.  Then,  making  a  stiff  bow,  he  mur 
mured,  "That's  all." 

Directly  he  had  departed,  Hindwood  locked  the 


250  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

door  behind  him.     "He  shall  ferret  out  no  more  of 
our  secrets." 

From  then  on,  they  traveled  in  a  state  of  siege. 
Several  times  they  thought  they  heard  a  tapping. 
Whether  it  was  the  Captain's,  they  did  not  allow 
themselves  to  discover.  They  opened  to  no  one  whom 
they  had  not  summoned. 


VII 


Soon  after  the  train  restarted,  Santa  rented  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  "You  think  better  of  me  now. 
Fm  so  tired,  I  should  cry  if  you  spoke  to  me.  Let 
me  sleep  on  your  couch.  I'm  afraid  to  be  alone." 

He  covered  her  with  his  rug  and  did  his  best 
to  make  her  comfortable.  She  was  utterly  exhausted. 
In  a  few  minutes  her  eyes  closed  and  she  was  breath 
ing  gently. 

Several  hours  elapsed.  She  was  still  sleeping.  He 
was  glad  not  to  have  to  talk.  His  mind  was  filled 
with  a  tremendous  picture:  "There  was  a  certain 
rich  man,  which  was  clothed  in  purple  and  fine  linen, 
and  fared  sumptuously  every  day.  And  there  was  a 
certain  beggar  named  Lazarus,  which  was  laid  at 
his  gate  full  of  sores." 

He  saw  the  world  that  he  was  leaving,  self-satis 
fied,  callous,  well-nourished.  He  saw  the  world  to 
which  he  was  going,  out  of  which  he  had  planned 
to  make  a  profit — a  world  picked  clean  by  the  crime 
of  war  and  peopled  by  living  skeletons.  When  its 


THE  ESCAPE  251 

pain  had  passed  beyond  endurance,  the  outcast  world 
would  attack  the  world  which  was  comfortable.  It 
would  come  crawling  like  a  beggar  to  a  rich  man's 
door.  When  it  found  the  door  barred,  it  would 
go  mad.  It  had  nothing  to  lose  by  violence.  With 
its  bare  hands  it  would  storm  the  dwelling. 

How  would  the  comfortable  world  defend  itself? 
The  Captain  said  with  cannon.  From  a  safe  dis 
tance  it  would  blow  the  empty  bellies  into  nothing 
ness.  But  bread  was  cheaper  than  high  explosives. 
Why  not  fill  the  empty  bellies  instead  of  shattering 
them  ? 

He  recalled  the  fields  round  Amiens,  starred  with 
miniature  forests  of  stiff,  protesting  crosses.  Why 
had  those  crosses  been  planted  if  it  had  not  been 
to  teach  the  living  world  to  share? 

A  barricade  of  bread  could  prevent  further  blood 
shed.  It  always  could  have  prevented  it.  The  gray 
tide  of  wolf-men  could  be  halted  by  a  barricade  of 
bread.  Strange  that  no  one  had  ever  thought  of  it ! 
There  had  never  been  a  war  that  a  barricade  of 
bread  could  not  have  halted.  Back  and  forth  across 
the  Atlantic  his  food-ships  were  plying.  In  Holland 
his  warehouses  were  bulging — 

He  glanced  at  the  sleeping  face  of  Santa — sweet 
and  sad  as  an  avenging  angel's.  Her  solution  of  in 
justice  was  simple:  to  slay  the  wrong-doer  before 
he  could  do  his  wrong.  It  was  her  own  suffering  that 
had  taught  her  this  cruel  mercy.  If  she,  a  half-caste, 
disinherited  at  birth,  could  so  risk  her  soul's  salva 
tion  for  humanity — 


He  drew  himself  up  sharply.  He  was  turning 
visionary.  At  this  rate  he  would  end  as  a  second 
Varensky.  All  his  plans  for  capturing  power  would 
be  thwarted.  He  had  seen  nothing  as  yet  that  would 
corroborate  the  Captain's  disastrous  prophecies. 

At  Stuttgart  he  watched  the  Captain  receive  an 
other  telegram.  If  the  man  had  lied  to  him,  what 
was  his  purpose?  How  much  did  he  know?  How 
much  did  he  infer?  Had  his  discovery  that  they  were 
not  married  been  an  accident  or  had  he  led  up  to  it 
by  strategy?  When  Vienna  was  reached,  it  would 
be  necessary  to  throw  him  off  their  track. 

They  were  winding  through  blue  valleys  of  the 
Bavarian  Tyrol,  steeped  in  the  contentment  of 
autumnal  sunshine.  Like  eagles*  nests,  built  high 
above  pine-forests,  he  caught  glimpses  of  chalets 
perched  on  narrow  ledges.  Here  and  there  they 
passed  villages,  mere  clusters  of  dolls'  houses, 
childish  and  make-believe  as  memories  of  fairy 
land.  He  began  to  smile  at  his  mood  of  pessimism. 
Were  Santa  to  waken,  she  would  refute  the 
Captain's  bogey  stories.  He  bent  over  her,  tempted 
to  rouse  her.  At  last  he  shook  her  shoulder. 

"Santa,  don't  be  frightened.  I  want  to  ask  you 
a  question.  What  the  Captain  said  wasn't  true?" 

She  gazed  up  at  him  bewildered,  dreams  still  in 
her  eyes;  then  turned  her  face  drowsily  back  to 
the  pillow.  "What  wasn't  true?  I  don't  under 
stand." 

"The  part  about  Prince  Rogovich  and  blowing 
those  starving  wretches  back  with  cannon." 


THE  ESCAPE  253 

She  settled  herself  wearily.  "I'm  so  terribly  tired. 
I  don't  want  to  be  reminded."  And  then,  "It  was 
whv  I  killed  him;  so  that  he  shouldn't." 


VIII 

Darkness  had  long  since  gathered  when  they 
crossed  the  starvation-line  into  Austria.  Perhaps 
it  was  no  more  than  imagination,  but  he  immediately 
became  conscious  of  a  vague  depression.  Glancing 
through  the  misty  panes,  he  espied  no  signs  of  life — 
only  bare  fields,  pollarded  trees  like  gallows,  and 
the  sullen  profiles  of  shrouded  houses.  No  trains 
flashed  by,  going  in  the  opposite  direction.  Wayside 
stations  were  shuttered.  Night  was  a  stagnant  tank. 
In  the  all-pervading  silence  the  sound  of  their  own 
going  was  the  only  clamor. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  nearing  Vienna  that  any 
lights  broke  the  monotony  of  the  blackness — even 
these,  like  lanterns  of  lonely  grave-diggers,  were 
faint  and  rare.  Shadowy  apartment-houses  and  rot 
ting  factories  looked  less  like  habitations  than  mon 
strous  sepulchers.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  this 
pulseless  carcass  had  once  been  the  Bacchante  among 
modern  metropolises — that  even  at  this  moment 
memories  of  its  rhythm  were  setting  the  feet  of 
happier  streets  to  music.  He  caught  the  vision  of 
other  cities  after  nightfall;  New  York,  a  tall  white 
virgin,  sheathed  in  jewels;  London,  a  grimy  smith, 
striking  sparks  from  a  giant  anvil ;  Paris,  a  wanton 


254  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

goddess,  smiling  through  the  dusk,  her  face  lit  up 
by  fire-fly  constellations.  How  impossible  it  would 
be  to  approach  any  one  of  them  without  becoming 
aware  of  its  presence !  Yet  a  man  might  easily  travel 
through  Vienna  without  suspecting  that  it  lay  cow 
ering  behind  the  darkness. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  the  train  halted  in  the 
empty  cathedral  of  the  Bahnhof.  Directly  the  doors 
were  opened,  lean  men  poured  into  the  compartments, 
whining  for  the  privilege  of  handling  the  baggage. 
Hindwood  delayed  until  he  had  allowed  the  Cap 
tain  sufficient  time  to  make  his  exit,  then  he  thought 
it  safe  to  assist  Santa  to  the  platform.  Once  again, 
despite  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  it  was  necessary  to 
go  through  tedious  formalities.  The  question  asked 
most  pressingly,  as  at  the  German  frontier,  was 
whether  they  were  possessed  of  fire-arms. 

At  last  they  were  free  to  go  in  search  of  beds. 
As  they  stepped  into  the  station-yard,  they  got  their 
first  glimpse  of  Austria's  destitution.  Huddled 
against  the  walls  was  a  collection  of  human  dere 
licts  which  seemed  more  in  keeping  with  Dante's 
"Inferno"  than  the  city  which  had  set  the  world 
waltzing  to  The  Merry  Widow.  They  were  of  all 
conditions  and  ages,  from  grandparents  to  toddling 
children,  from  artisans  to  aristocrats.  In  the  scant 
light  they  lifted  up  greenish  faces  which  snarled, 
while  their  extended  hands  demanded  charity.  The 
police  beat  them  back,  like  huntsmen  separating 
hounds  from  their  quarry.  They  retreated  whimper 
ing  into  the  shadows. 


THE  ESCAPE  255 

From  the  line  of  worn-out  vehicles  which  were 
waiting,  Hindwood  selected  a  creaking  taxi.  Having 
seen  Santa  seat  herself,  he  ordered  the  man  to 
drive  to  the  Hotel  Bristol. 

"Pretty  awful,'*  he  groaned,  as  he  sank  back 
against  the  musty  cushions. 

She  stifled  a  sob.  "It  was  nothing.  It's  worse 
than  that." 

He  spoke  again.  "I  didn't  see  the  Captain.  I 
think  we're  rid  of  him." 

"I  wouldn't  be  optimistic." 

Down  the  long,  deserted  Mariahilfer  Strasse  they 
bumped  and  rattled.  It  was  ungarnished  and  for 
bidding  as  an  empty  house.  The  few  people  whom 
they  met  scuffled  out  of  sight  at  sound  of  intrusion, 
looking  less  like  human  beings  than  vermin.  Over 
all  there  hung  a  sense  of  evil,  as  though  a  crime  lay 
undiscovered  behind  the  silence. 

As  they  turned  into  the  Ring,  which  circles  the 
inner  city,  Santa  woke  into  animation.  Leaning 
from  the  window,  she  pointed.  "Do  you  see  that 
huge  pile  like  a  palace,  with  all  the  statues  and  the 
steps  going  up  to  it?  That's  the  Opera  House.  I 
danced  there  once  at  the  command  of  the  Emperor." 

"Then  you're  known  here?"  He  clutched  her 
hand. 

She  shook  her  head  sadly.  "I  was  the  toast  of 
Europe  then.  Whereas  to-day —  It  makes  a  differ 
ence." 

In  the  Kartner-Ring  they  drew  up  before  a 
blazing  entrance.  Laughing  people  were  passing 


256  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

in  and  out,  women  muffled  in  costly  wraps,  accom 
panied  by  men  in  evening-attire. 

"What's  this?'*  The  change  was  so  sudden  that 
it  shook  his  sense  of  reality.  "This  doesn't  look 
like—" 

She  placed  her  lips  close  to  his  ear  as  she  alighted. 

"It  looks  like  asking  for  revolution.  'After  me, 
the  deluge* — you  remember?  The  men  aren't  Aus- 
trians.  They're  foreign  vultures  here  to  snatch  bar 
gains — human  bargains  as  well.  But  the  women — 

Inside  the  doors  of  the  hotel  every  reminder  of 
famine  had  been  blotted  out.  Its  white  marble  halls 
and  stairways  were  richly  carpeted,  Its  furnishings 
in  gilt  and  satin  had  been  carried  out  with  the  utmost 
lavishness.  The  costal  of  its  chandeliers  glittered 
with  a  dazzling  intensity.  From  the  restaurant 
drifted  the  wild  gayety  of  a  gipsy  orchestra,  enfever- 
ing  the  atmosphere  with  the  yearning  of  elusive  ro 
mance.  Whispering  to  the  beat  of  the  music  came 
the  glide  of  dancing  footsteps.  Flunkeys  with  pow 
dered  heads,  tricked  out  in  plush  breeches  like 
marionettes,  hurried  to  and  fro  on  all-absorbing 
errands. 

After  Santa  had  been  shown  to  her  ornate  room,  he 
stepped  out  into  the  gloomy  street  to  assure  him 
self.  It  was  all  true,  in  spite  of  the  lie  which  he  had 
witnessed.  The  pinched  faces  were  still  there,  and 
the  enfeebled  bodies  crawling  through  the  shadows. 

As  he  reentered  the  white  glare  which  shone  from 
the  hotel,  he  glanced  back  with  a  sense  of  impending 
ruin.  For  a  second  time  his  mind  was  filled  with  a 


THE  ESCAPE  257 

tremendous  picture:  "And  there  was  a  certain  rich 
man  and  a  beggar  named  Lazarus,  which  was  laid  at 
his  gate,  desiring  to  be  fed.  Moreover,  the  dogs 
came  and  licked  his  sores." 

He  caught  the  vision  of  his  food-ships  piling  up 
stores  in  Holland.  At  the  thought,  as  he  crept  be 
tween  the  sheets  in  his  comfortable  bed,  he  sickened. 


IX 


He  had  returned  from  a  disturbing  interview  with 
the  Austrian  ministers  responsible  for  considering 
his  proposals.  He  was  passing  the  hotel  desk,  when 
it  occurred  to  him  that  some  one  might  have  left  a 
message.  On  inquiry  two  were  handed  out  to  him, 
one  a  telegram,  the  other  a  letter.  Ripping  open 
the  telegram,  a  glance  told  him  it  was  in  German 
and  had  been  dispatched  from  Budapest.  He  had 
slipped  it  into  his  pocket,  thinking,  "I'll  have  to  get 
Santa  to  translate  that,"  when  he  unfolded  it  again 
to  see  by  whom  it  had  been  sent.  The  sender's  name 
was  a  single  word,  "Anna." 

His  heart  gave  a  bound.  She  was  near  to  him! 
He  could  see  her  again  within  a  handful  of  hours. 
For  a  moment  nothing  else  seemed  to  matter — 
neither  Santa's  safety,  nor  the  agony  of  hunger  by 
which  he  was  surrounded.  His  blood  ran  hot  with 
yearning.  How  had  she  reached  Budapest  so 
quickly?  What  was  her  object?  To  have  accom 
plished  the  journey  she  must  have  set  out  from 


258  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

England  ahead  of  him  or  else  have  left  on  the  same 
day,  traveling  by  the  alternative  route  via  Belgium. 
While  he  had  been  journeying  in  the  company  of 
Santa,  going  through  the  mummery  of  pretending 
he  was  married,  Anna  had  been  paralleling  his  foot 
steps.  Was  Varensky  with  her?  But  if  she  were 
alone  .  .  . 

Mechanically,  as  he  entered  the  elevator,  he  slit 
the  flap  of  the  letter.  It  had  evidently  been  left 
personally,  for  it  bore  no  postmark  and  was  hastily 
scrawled  on  the  stationery  of  the  hotel.  The  hand 
was  unknown  to  him.  The  note  read: 

"Yesterday  you  avoided  me.  I  have  told  her 
everything.  I  am  more  sure  than  ever  you  ought 
to  send  her  back.  I  must  leave  you  now  for  a  little 
while.  When  we  meet  again,  I  hope  it  will  be  as 
friends. 

LAJOS." 

At  last  they  had  got  rid  of  him!  But  what  was 
it  he  had  told  her?  And  what  made  him  so  sure  that 
they  would  meet  again?  The  man  wrote  as  if  he 
were  confident  that  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  them 
at  any  moment. 

Stepping  out  of  the  elevator,  Hindwood  made 
directly  for  Santa's  room.  He  recalled  it  vaguely 
as  he  had  seen  it  the  night  before,  with  its  Empire 
furniture,  painted  cupids,  silken  hangings,  and  tall 
mirrors — its  knowing  air  of  having  been  the  illicit 
nest  of  innumerable  short-lived  love-affairs.  Its 


THE  ESCAPE  259 

gaudy  luxury,  so  glaringly  in  contrast  with  the  em 
bittered  need  of  the  outside  world,  had  stirred  his 
anger.  In  reply  to  his  knock,  her  hoarse  voice  bade 
him  enter.  Before  he  was  across  the  threshold,  he 
was  aware  of  the  intoxicating  fragrance  of  roses. 

Just  inside  the  room,  frowning  with  bewilderment, 
he  halted.  There  were  stacks  of  them — sheaves  of 
them  everywhere.  They  were  scattered  on  the  floor. 
They  were  arranged  in  vases.  They  lay  strewn  about 
in  boxes.  They  were  of  all  shades  and  varieties. 

"What's  the  meaning?" 

She  beckoned  to  him  to  join  her  at  the  tall  window 
against  which  she  was  standing. 

"We  missed  this  last  night."     She  pointed. 

Following  her  direction,  he  saw  that  the  window 
looked  down  obliquely  on  the  imposing  architecture 
of  the  Opera  House.  The  mellow  October  sunlight 
drifted  softly  across  gray  roofs  and  fell  in  an  orange 
splash  into  the  deep  fissure  of  the  street  below. 
Along  the  pavements  the  tide  of  traffic  wandered 
nervelessly.  On  a  neighboring  ledge,  two  plump 
pigeons  were  engaged  in  an  ardent  courtship. 

"What  did  we  miss?    I  see  nothing." 

Then  he  noticed  the  panting  of  her  bosom  and 
that  her  expression  was  tender  with  tremulous  emo 
tion. 

Drawing  her  fine  fingers  across  her  eyes,  she 
shuddered.  "Stupid  of  me!  I  forgot;  they  would 
bring  back  nothing  to  you — the  scent  of  the  roses 
and  then  the  Opera  House,  looking  the  same  as  ever. 
I've  been  dreaming  of  other  mornings,  when  I  woke 


260  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

after  nights  of  triumph.  Perhaps  it  was  this  room 
that  set  me  remembering.  It's  not  the  first  time  I've 
slept  in  it."  As  she  caught  his  eyes  reading  her  mem 
ories,  she  flushed  guiltily.  "Yes,  in  those  days  I  was 
never  lonely." 

"But  the  roses !"  he  reminded  her  impatiently. 
"How  did  you  get  them?  At  the  price  things  cost  in 
Vienna,  some  one  must  have  spent  a  fortune." 

She  placed  a  hand  on  his  arm  appealingly.  "Don't 
begrudge  me.  He  must  have  known.  I  think  he 
did  it  for  my  burial." 

Her  words  sent  a  chill  through  him.  He  shifted 
his  weight  uncomfortably.  "We're  in  too  tight  a 
corner  to  waste  energy  on  sentiment.  If  we're  going 
to  make  a  fight  for  it,  we've  got  to  keep  our  heads 
clear.  Who  gave  them  to  you?" 

She  pressed  her  forehead  against  the  warm  pane. 
The  gold  of  the  world  outside  cast  a  sheen  of  gold 
on  her  profile.  Her  unwanted  loveliness  hurt  him. 
It  reproached  him.  It  recalled  to  him  the  ache  of  his 
old  desire  in  the  days  before  he  had  known  that  he 
could  have  her.  Aad  now  that  he  could  have  her  for 
the  asking.  .  .  . 

"Captain  Lajos  gave  them  to  me.  They've  been 
arriving  ever  since  we  parted.  He  waited  till  you'd 
gone;  then  he  came  to  me.  He  came  to  tell  me  why 
he'd  followed  me.  He  was  persuaded  I  was  your 
mistress.  This  morning  he  did  something  noble — 
very  noble  for  a  man  of  his  sort  to  a  woman  of  mine; 
he  begged  me  to  become  his  wife." 


THE  ESCAPE  261 

"Without  knowing  anything  about  you  ?  He  must 
be  mad." 

"Don't  say  that."  She  closed  her  eyes  painfully. 
"I  shan't  trouble  you  or  any  one  much  longer.  I 
shall  soon  be  so  still.  When  one's  sure  of  tkat,  it's 
good  to  be  loved  just  once  again,  even  though — " 
She  turned  slowly  and  faced  him.  "I  don't  need  to 
tell  you  who  it  is  that  I  love  truly.  This  man — he's 

nothing.     No  man  erer  wiH You  see  I've  lived 

for  men  and  admiration — for  things  like — "  She 
pointed  to  the  roses.  "It's  new  to  me  to  be  neglected. 
So  it's  comforting  to  know  that  a  man  can  still  desire 
me,  even  though  I'd  rather  kill  myself  than  go  with 
him." 

He  broke  the  silence  that  had  settled  between  them. 
"You  mustn't  talk  like  this.  You've  years  of  life 
before  you.  I'll  get  you  away  safely." 

She  smiled.  "No."  Then  she  changed  the  sub 
ject.  "What  happened  to  you?" 

"You  mean  at  my  conference?"  He  seated  him 
self  beside  her  dressing-table.  "The  worst  that  could 
have  happened — nothing.  Some  change  has  taken 
place  for  which  I  can't  account.  When  I  sent 
my  suggestions  from  America,  they  were  hailed  with 
enthusiasm.  I  was  a  saviour — everything  that's 
splendid  and  extravagant.  But  now —  The  Govern 
ment's  paralyzed.  It  isn't  a  Government ;  it's  a  pas 
senger.  'You've  let  us  starve  too  long.  It  doesn't 
matter  now — '  that's  what  I  was  told  this  morning. 
The  ministers  with  whom  I  consulted  spoke  as  if 
they  were  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  volcano,  waiting 


262  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

to  be  blown  up.  They're  so  sure  that  an  eruption's 
inevitable  that  they  don't  consider  it  worth  while 
to  make  an  effort  to  save  themselves.  I  couldn't 
rouse  them.  When  I  pressed  them  for  the  cause  of 
their  lethargy,  they  prophesied  a  new  war,  in  very 
much  the  same  words  as  Captain  Lajos — a  war  in 
which  the  well-fed  are  to  be  pillaged  by  the 
starving." 

"But  did  you  tell  them  that  you  could  ship  food 
into  Austria  at  once?" 

"I  told  them.  I  assured  them  that  I  could  put 
Austria  back  on  her  feet  in  twelve  months.  I  offered 
to  provision  her  and  to  supply  coal  for  her  factories, 
if  they'd  give  me  control  of  the  railroads  and  a  per 
capita  percentage  on  the  total  increase  of  national 
industry.  'Provision  us  with  pleasure'  was  their 
attitude;  'we'll  raise  no  official  objection.'  'Very 
kind  of  you,'  I  replied;  'but  where  do  I  come  in. 
I'm  no  philanthropist.' '  He  brought  his  fist  down 
with  a  bang  on  the  dressing-table.  "There's  a  nigger 
in  the  wood-pile.  Upon  my  soul,  I  believe  those  fel 
lows  are  determined  that  I  shan't  prevent  their  na 
tion  from  dying.  If  I  shipped  them  the  food  as  a 
gift,  they'd  burn  it." 

She  came  over  from  the  window  and  stood 
gazing  down  at  him.  "You're  right.  They  would 
if  they  dared.  Can't  you  guess?" 

"I  can't.  Their  currency's  hardly  worth  the  paper 
it's  printed  on.  People  are  dropping  dead  in  the 
streets — I  saw  them.  Their  gaols  are  packed  with 
children  turned  criminals  through  hunger.  There'll 


THE  ESCAPE  263 

be  no  crops  next  year;  the  grain's  consumed  that 
should  have  been  saved  for  the  sowing.  They've 
butchered  all  their  live-stock.  The  brains  of  the 
country  are  in  exile.  The  intellectual  classes  have 
been  wiped  out.  And  here  I  come  with  my  offer  to 
save  them,  and  they  reject  it.  Without  the  help  of 
some  outside  force  like  myself,  things  can  only  go 
from  bad  to  worse." 

"Precisely." 

He  glanced  up,  irritated  by  the  promptitude  of 
her  agreement.  "Precisely !  Why  do  you  say  that  ?" 

"It's  what  they  want — things  to  go  from  bad  to 
worse.  The  worse  things  get,  the  more  certain  they 
are  of  revolution.  They're  afraid  your  food  would 
postpone  it." 

"Afraid!     Why  on  earth?" 

"Because  they  hope  to  snatch  more  out  of  the 
catastrophe  of  revolution  than  you  can  offer  them. 
These  ministers  with  whom  you've  been  dealing  are 
the  tools  of  the  exiled  monarchists.  They  belong  to 
the  party  in  all  countries  which  made  the  last  war 
possible  and  all  wars  before  it.  What  do  they  care 
for  the  people?  They  never  have  cared.  'Let  the 
brutes  starve,'  they  say,  *if  it  suits  our  purpose. 
We  can  always  breed  more.'  They  regard  the  people 
as  their  serfs,  to  be  fooled  with  patriotism  when 
danger  threatens  and  to  be  kept  in  chains  to  toil  for 
them  when  peace  has  been  restored.  If  the  people 
go  hungry  long  enough,  they'll  reason  that  the  loss 
of  their  kings  is  the  cause.  They'll  rise  up  and  recall 
them.  They'll  start  to  die  for  them  afresh.  It'll 


264-  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

happen  in  all  the  outcast  countries.  In  the  whole 
sale  scramble,  it'll  be  every  nation  for  itself.  The 
strong  will  struggle  to  expand  their  frontiers,  and 
the  weak  will  go  to  the  wall.  The  deluge  of  blood — " 
She  sank  to  her  knees,  seizing  his  hands  imploringly. 
"If  you'll  sacrifice  your  stores  of  food,  you  can  stop 
it." 

"But  if  I  do  that,  without  guaranties,  I'm  bank 
rupt.  I  get  nothing.'* 

"You'll  get  more  than  I  got  when,  to  accomplish 
the  same  purpose,  I  murdered  Prince  Rogovich.  I'll 
get  the  scaffold.  You'll  earn  the  thanks  of  humanity. 
You'll  go  down  to  the  ages.  .  .  ." 

He  could  see  only  the  wide  grayness  of  her  eyes, 
pleading,  coercing,  unbalancing  his  judgment. 

He  jumped  to  his  feet,  shaking  off  their  spell.  "I'm 
no  dreamer — no  Varensky,"  he  said  gruffly.  "I 
have  to  make  a  profit."  Then,  defending  himself 
from  her  unspoken  accusation,  "We're  only  guessing. 
We  have  no  facts.  There  are  other  famished  coun 
tries — Hungary  and  Poland.  What  Austria  refuses, 
they  may  accept."  He  dug  his  hand  into  his  pocket. 
"That  reminds  me.  Here's  a  telegram  from  Buda 
pest.  I  can't  understand  it.  It's  in  German." 

She  was  crouched  on  the  floor.  As  he  stooped  to 
give  it  to  her,  she  caught  sight  of  the  signature. 

"From  Anna.  Varensky  must  be  with  her.  Then 
the  crisis  is  nearer  than  I  thought." 

"Read  it.    Tell  me  what  it  says,"  he  urged. 

She  looked  up  palely,  wilted  with  disappointment. 
"  'Come  at  once.  I  need  you'  That's  all." 


THE  ESCAPE  265 

"Does  she  give  no  address?" 

"She  wouldn't  risk  it.    I  know  where  to  find  her." 

"Then  we'll  start—" 

"But  what  about — ?" 

He  did  not  hear  her.  The  blood  was  hammering  in 
his  temples.  He  left  her  forgotten,  seated  among 
her  roses.  The  music  of  a  wild  exultation  was  mad 
dening  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  THE  SEVENTH 


THE    CAPTURE 


O  Anna  had  turned  to  him  out  of  all  the  world ! 
She  had  felt  so  sure  of  him  that  she  had  not 
even  stated  the  reason  for  her  urgency — only  "Come 
at  once.  I  need  you."  That  she  should  have  relied 
so  implicitly  on  his  compliance  put  him  on  his  honor 
not  to  disappoint  her.  She  must  have  known  that  her 
telegram  would  find  him  involved  in  important  busi 
ness.  The  earliest  she  could  have  counted  on  seeing 
him  must  have  been  to-morrow.  He  was  determined, 
if  it  were  humanly  possible,  to  exceed  her  best  expec 
tations  ;  he  would  see  her  to-night.  Having  phoned 
for  the  hotel  porter  to  be  sent  to  him,  he  immediately 
commenced  to  pack.  He  recalled  the  message  that 
Santa  had  delivered  him:  "Varensky's  setting  out  on 
his  last  journey.  He  told  me  to  say,  'Soon  you  can 
have  her.' '  Did  Anna's  telegram  mean  that  Varen 
sky's  final  journey  was  ended? 

He  was  throwing  his  belongings  together  when  the 
porter    entered. 

"You  wanted  me,  sir?" 

"Yes.      What's    the    first    train — the    fastest    to 
Budapest?" 

266 


THE  CAPTURE  267 

"The  first,  if  it's  still  running,  starts  from  the 
Nord-Bahnhof  within  the  hour.  But — ' 

"Then  order  me  a  taxi.  I'll  be  ready  in  ten 
minutes.  Have  my  bill  made  up.  Send  some  one 
to  my  secretary's  room  to  fetch  down  her  baggage." 

"Certainly.     But—" 

Hindwood  glanced  at  the  man  coldly.  "I'm  in  too 
much  of  a  hurry  for  conversation." 

A  little  later,  as  he  was  pocketing  his  change, 
having  settled  his  account,  the  cashier  addressed  him. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Don't  understand."  Then, 
catching  sight  of  Santa,  he  beckoned.  "The  fellow's 
trying  to  say  something.  Find  out  what's  troubling 
him." 

The  cashier  repeated  more  earnestly  the  words 
that  he  had  previously  uttered. 

"He  wants  to  know  whether  you  really  think  you 
can  leave  Vienna,"  Santa  translated. 

"What's  to  prevent?"  Then  he  caught  her  arm, 
lowering  his  voice.  "Perhaps  they're  on  to  you." 

The  Kartner-Ring  was  extraordinarily  deserted. 
Against  the  curb  a  wheezing  taxi  was  standing — the 
only  one  in  sight.  Its  engine  was  running.  The 
bags  had  been  piled  on  the  front  seat  beside  the 
driver,  evidently  very  much  to  his  annoyance ;  he  was 
doing  his  best  to  tumble  them  back  on  to  the  pave 
ment.  The  hotel  porter  was  vigorously  restraining 
him.  An  altercation  was  in  progress  which  threat 
ened  any  minute  to  develop  into  a  fight. 

"What's   the  matter?" 

The  porter  replied  across  his  shoulder,  still  hold- 


268  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

ing  the  bags  in  place.  "He  doesn't  want  to  drive 
you." 

"Tell  him  I'll  give  him  five  times  the  legal  fare." 

When  the  offer  had  been  translated,  the  man 
seemed  mollified. 

The  porter  opened  the  door.  "Quickly.  Jump 
in  before  he  changes  his  mind.  He  promises  to  do 
his  best." 

"His  best !    I  should  think  so." 

As  the  cab  moved  off,  Hindwood  missed  the 
porter's  parting  words.  He  turned  to  Santa.  "Do 
they  always  come  this  hold-up  game  with  foreigners 
in  Vienna?" 

"It  isn't  a  hold-up  game.  He  didn't  want  to  drive 
us.  He  was  afraid.  Something's  wrong.  Look 
how  empty  the  streets  are.  Didn't  you  see  how 
white  and  scared  every  one  was  in  the  hotel?  The 
cashier  would  have  told  us ;  you  wouldn't  even  let  me 
listen  to  him." 

"Jealous !"  he  thought.  "It'll  be  awkward  having 
to  take  care  of  both  her  and  Anna." 

They  had  driven  for  ten  minutes  in  silence  when 
Santa  spoke  again.  "It's  a  queer  way  he's  taking 
us." 

"How  queer?" 

"So  round-about." 

"As  long  as  he  keeps  going,  we  don't  need  to 
worry." 

"But  why  should  he  turn  up  all  the  side-streets?" 

"I  don't  know.  It'll  be  time  to  grow  nervous 
when  he  stops." 


THE  CAPTURE  269 

At  that  moment  he  stopped,  but  it  was  only  for  a 
second.  Spinning  his  cab  about,  he  spurted  off  in  a 
new  direction.  Glancing  from  the  window  as  he 
turned,  they  saw  that  the  main  thoroughfare  ahead 
was  blocked  by  what  appeared  to  be  a  procession. 
Street  after  street  he  tried,  working  round  in  a  circle, 
never  getting  any  nearer.  At  last,  growing  desper 
ate,  he  took  the  plunge,  tooting  his  horn  and  forcing 
his  way  through  the  outskirts  of  the  seething  mob. 
By  the  time  Hindwood  had  ordered  him  to  turn 
back  it  was  too  late;  for  a  hundred  yards  behind 
them,  from  pavement  to  pavement,  the  thoroughfare 
was  packed  with  pedestrians  and  vehicles,  all  headed 
in  the  one  direction.  To  get  out  and  walk,  even  if 
they  had  been  willing  to  sacrifice  their  baggage,  was 
out  of  the  question.  The  crowd  in  front  was  more 
dense  than  the  crowd  behind.  The  air  was  full  of 
shrieks  of  fainting  women  and  the  shiver  of  plate- 
glass  as  shop-windows  gave  way  under  the  pressure. 
To  escape  the  crush,  which  was  momentarily  increas 
ing,  people  were  clambering  to  the  roof  of  the  taxi 
and  standing  thick  along  the  running-boards. 

Santa  was  speaking  in  a  torrent  to  the  strangers 
clinging  to  the  doors. 

"Can't  you  stop  long  enough  to  tell  me  what's 
happening?"  Hindwood  interrupted. 

She  apologized.  "I  forgot  for  the  moment  that 
you  can't  speak  German.  They're  as  puzzled  as  we 
are.  All  they  know  is  that  they're  doing  what 
every  one  else  is  doing.  They  don't  know  the  cause. 
The  same  thing's  happening  at  every  station.  A 


270  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

panic's  struck  Vienna — a  foreboding  of  disaster. 
It's  a  case  of  nerves.  In  some  places  looting  has 
started.  Every  one's  escaping — the  entire  popula 
tion.  It's  anything  to  get  westward  to  France, 
Switzerland,  Germany,  away  from  this  nightmare 
of  starvation.  They're  storming  the  trains  in  the 
Bahnhof,  trying  to  compel  the  engineers  to — " 

Turning  from  him,  she  commenced  to  ply  more 
questions  in  her  hurried  flow  of  German. 

It  was  all  clear  now — the  porter's  hesitancy,  the 
cashier's  earnestness,  the  driver's  reluctance.  They 
had  been  trying  to  prevent  him  from  hurrying  a 
woman  into  danger.  He  had  been  too  obsessed  by  the 
thought  of  reaching  Anna  even  to  pay  attention. 
For  confirmation  of  what  Santa  had  told  him,  he 
had  only  to  glance  at  the  surrounding  throng.  The 
lean  multitude  was  absurdly  prepared  for  its  futile 
exodus.  Irrespective  of  class,  every  individual  was 
burdened  with  whatever  he  or  she  had  had  time  to 
rescue  of  the  household  goods.  They  carried  bundles 
beneath  their  arms  and  sacks  on  their  backs.  Every 
thing  on  wheels  had  been  commandeered.  Some 
pushed  perambulators,  piled  high  with  ill-assorted 
belongings ;  others  had  harnessed  themselves  to  carts. 
None  of  them  could  have  considered  whether  his 
or  her  presence  would  be  allowed  in  a  happier  coun 
try.  Obviously  over  night  the  half  of  Vienna  could 
not  have  procured  the  necessary  permits  to  travel. 

On  the  outskirts  those  who  were  most  desperate, 
because  furthest  from  the  station,  had  begun  to 
charge.  Hindwood  watched  the  stampede — how  ter- 


THE  CAPTURE  271 

ror  was  transforming  forlorn  human  beings  into 
animals.  They  were  of  all  kinds  and  sorts,  me 
chanics,  waiters,  slum-dwellers,  merchants,  shop-girls, 
demi-mondaines,  with  here  and  there  a  sprinkling  of 
patrician  faces  from  the  palaces  of  the  bankrupt 
aristocracy.  There  were  lonely  men  and  women, 
but  for  the  most  part  they  were  grouped  in  families, 
the  children  dragging  at  their  mother's  skirts  and  the 
youngest  in  the  father's  arms.  They  pushed,  jostled 
and  fought,  trampling  the  weak  in  their  frenzy  to 
get  forward. 

Suddenly  the  madness  of  self-preservation  froze 
with  horror.  At  the  end  of  the  street,  far  up  the 
pale  river  of  gray  faces,  horsemen  were  advancing, 
standing  tall  in  their  stirrups,  smiting  with  their 
swords.  Santa  flung  herself  to  the  floor.  "Down. 
Keep  down.  The  children — oh,  my  God!" 

Like  a  volley  of  hail,  bullets  commenced  to  patter. 
They  whipped  the  street  from  end  to  end,  hissing 
in  their  flight  and  thudding  as  they  found  their  tar 
get.  The  taxi  tossed  and  rocked  like  a  rowboat  in 
a  mill-race.  The  mob  had  given  way;  like  water 
from  a  burst  dam,  it  roared  between  the  tall,  con 
fining  houses.  It  swept  backwards  weeping,  bleed 
ing,  desperate,  exhausted,  wilder  in  its  retreat  than 
it  had  been  in  its  advance.  Behind  it  came  the  cav 
alry,  riding  it  down,  firing  and  stabbing.  In  five 
minutes  nothing  was  in  sight,  save  upset  vehicles, 
scattered  belongings,  dead  lying  awkwardly  in  the 
October  sunshine  and  wounded  crawling  weakly  in 
search  of  refuge. 


272  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

Reaching  through  the  shattered  window,  Hind- 
wood  tapped  the  driver's  shoulder.  "Drive  on." 

At  the  touch  the  man  crumpled.  There  was  a 
crimson  blot  in  the  center  of  his  forehead. 

Santa  sat  up,  staring  furiously.  "If  you'd  not 
refused  them  bread — " 

"1  didn't." 

"You  did.    You  were  only  willing  to  sell." 

Her  eyes  were  blazing.  Her  hands  were  clenched. 
Her  tears  fell  slowly.  In  the  terrific  silence  which 
followed  so  much  clamor,  the  street  itself  seemed  to 
accuse  him.  Picking  up  their  bags,  he  led  the  way 
to  the  station.  Scenes  such  as  the  one  he  had  wit 
nessed  might  be  happening  in  Budapest.  There 
was  no  time  to  be  lost. 

"Find  out  whether  it's  possible  to  send  a  wire." 

"Where  to  ?"    she  asked  suspiciously. 

"To  Amsterdam." 

"What  for?" 

"Do  you  need  to  ask?" 

After  a  hurried  conversation  with  a  scared  offi 
cial,  she  turned.  "If  it's  to  do  with  food,  they'll 
accept  it.  The  lines  may  be  cut  at  any  moment." 

He  dashed  off  his  telegram.  "Crisis  sooner  than 
expected.  Without  delay  start  food-trains  under 
armed  guard  for  Budapest  and  Vienna." 

It  might  spell  bankruptcy  for  him — the  ruin  of  all 
his  plans.  He  rebelled  against  the  improvidence 
of  philanthropy,  yet  dimly  he  discerned  the  propor 
tions  of  his  chance.  If  he  would,  he  could  teach  the 
world  how  wars  could  be  stopped.  As  he  watched  the 


THE  CAPTURE  273 

message  being  dispatched,  he  wondered  why  he  had 
sent  it.  Was  he  frightened  by  the  sight  of  bloodshed, 
or  angered,  like  Varensky,  by  an  unjust  display  of 
force?  Or  had  he  sent  it  because  this  maelstrom 
of  human  agony  swirled  between  him  and  the  woman 
he  loved,  and  food  might  prove  to  be  the  only  means 
by  which  she  could  be  rescued?  He  sought  to  ex 
plain  his  actions  by  business  motives :  if  his  food 
trains  were  actually  on  the  spot,  he  could  strike  a 
better  bargain  with  tottering  governments. 


II 


The  express  for  Budapest  was  several  hours  late. 
When  at  last  it  got  under  way,  it  carried  few  pas 
sengers.  It  was  plunging  straight  into  the  heart 
of  the  danger,  from  which  all  the  world  which  pos 
sessed  the  price  of  a  fare  was  escaping. 

Santa  listened  to  and  reported  on  the  conversation 
of  fellow-travelers.  They  were  Hungarian  officers 
returning  to  their  regiments,  to  whom  a  fight  spelt 
opportunity;  they  were  husbands  and  fathers,  care 
less  of  their  own  safety  in  their  dread  of  what  might 
be  happening  to  their  families ;  they  were  merchants 
and  men  of  wealth,  anxious  to  be  at  hand  for  the 
defense  of  their  possessions.  As  the  talk  went  on, 
the  greatness  of  the  risk  grew  increasingly  obvious ; 
it  bred  an  atmosphere  of  free-masonry.  Strangers 
accosted  each  other,  exchanging  views  on  the 
hazards;  they  crowded  about  the  entrance  of  any 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 

compartment  where  a  speaker  seemed  possessed  of 
accurate  information.  Most  of  what  was  said  was 
no  more  than  conjecture;  much  of  it  was  utterly 
contradictory.  One  man  asserted  that  the  Bol 
sheviks  were  attacking  all  along  the  Russian  front; 
another  that  Bolshevism  had  collapsed  and  the  peas 
ants  were  massacring.  Another  knew  for  certain 
that  throughout  Central  Europe  the  Reds  were  ris 
ing  ;  yet  another  that  the  Monarchists  had  sprung  to 
arms  and  were  marching.  Every  rumor  or  invention 
was  accepted  with  equal  credulity.  Anything  was 
possible.  No  one  knew  for  certain  either  the  magni 
tude  or  the  cause  of  the  rumored  disaster.  Only  one 
fact  seemed  indisputable :  somewhere  further  eastward 
had  occurred  a  catastrophe  of  shattering  propor 
tions — a  catastrophe  in  the  tragedy  of  which  each 
one  of  them  would  shortly  be  involved. 

Hindwood  turned  away  from  the  babel  of  voices 
to  the  autumn  landscape  gliding  past  the  windows. 
It  consisted  as  far  as  eye  could  stretch  of  unboun- 
daried,  level  fields,  gridironed  by  straight,  military 
roads,  marked  by  avenues  of  pollarded  trees,  inter 
secting  always  at  right  angles.  The  fields  were  neg 
lected.  They  told  their  own  story  of  seed  con 
sumed,  which  should  have  been  saved  for  sowing, 
and  of  cattle  slaughtered.  Over  everything,  despite 
the  brilliant  blueness  of  the  sky,  there  hung  an  at 
mosphere  of  melancholy.  Down  white-penciled  high 
ways  little  groups  were  trekking,  always  in  the  one 
direction.  They  appeared  crushed  and  harmless, 
more  like  insects,  scarcely  human.  They  limped  for- 


THE  CAPTURE  275 

lornly,  dragging  carts  and  carrying  children.  They 
were  the  advance-guard  of  the  army  of  starvation. 
Hindwood  remembered  the  Captain's  prophecy. 
"They'll  march  to  the  lands  of  plenty  like  Death 
swinging  his  scythe,  like  a  pestilence,  like  gaunt 
wolves." 

At  the  frontier,  where  the  train  crossed  from  Aus 
tria  into  Hungary,  he  gained  his  first  lesson  in  the 
resistlessness  of  necessity.  There  had  been  an  un 
equal  battle,  in  which  only  one  side  had  been  armed. 
It  appeared  that  the  Austrian  guards  had  tried  to 
turn  back  the  Hungarian  fugitives.  They  had  fired 
their  rifles  till  their  ammunition  was  exhausted ;  then 
they  had  sickened  of  the  slaughter.  Opposition  had 
made  no  difference;  the  tide  of  fugitives  had  still 
pressed  on.  Misery  had  proved  more  potent  than 
explosives ;  it  had  made  death,  if  not  desirable,  at 
least  negligible.  Its  meek  persistence  had  conquered. 
The  Austrian  soldiery  had  revolted  against  their  offi 
cers  and  stood  with  grounded  arms,  watching  the 
stream  of  poverty  trickling  through  the  barrier  of 
corpses. 

"Like  water  finding  its  own  level,"  Hindwood 
thought.  It  would  be  like  this  the  world  over,  if 
something  were  not  done  at  once  to  check  it.  The 
outcast  nations  lay  one  behind  the  other,  like  ter 
raced  avalanches,  in  an  ascending  scale  of  destitu 
tion — behind  the  Austrians  the  Hungarians,  behind 
the  Hungarians  the  Poles,  behind  the  Poles  the  Rus 
sians,  each  a  degree  more  agonized  in  its  privation. 
Now  that  the  movement  had  started  it  would  go  on, 


276  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

sliding,  filtering,  settling,  until  the  peoples  of  the 
earth  had  regained  an  economic  level.  The  Dives 
nations,  which  had  refused  to  share,  would  try  to 
hold  the  Lazarus  nations  at  bay  by  force.  They 
would  spray  them  with  cannon.  They  would  charge 
them  with  bayonets.  They  would  bomb  them,  gas 
them,  dig  labyrinths  of  trenches.  In  the  end,  as  had 
happened  here,  though  the  pariah  portion  of  hu 
manity  was  weaponless,  the  meek  persistency  of  its 
misery  would  conquer.  Careless  of  oblivion,  it  would 
press  on.  He  alone  could  give  the  Dives  nations  a 
seventh  hour  chance;  at  the  price  of  his  financial 
ruin,  he  could  prevent  the  deluge  of  famine  from 
spreading  by  damming  it  with  a  wall  of  bread. 

Darkness  had  fallen.  The  carriages  were  un- 
lighted.  The  train  was  moving  cautiously,  jerking, 
stopping,  starting,  like  a  live  thing  scenting  car 
nage.  Scattered  through  the  night  camp-fires  were 
burning.  In  the  gloom  conversation  dragged  on 
wearily  with  reiterated  guesses. 

He  felt  his  hand  clasped. 

"What  is  it?"  he  whispered.  "Frightened?  You 
won't  be  caught  now.  You're  as  safe  as  the  rest  of 
us.  No  one'll  have  time  to  remember  you." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  myself." 

"Then—?" 

"Of  you — that  perhaps  you  were  born  for  such 
a  time  as  this." 

"Ah !"  He  drew  his  breath.  The  echo  of  his  own 
thought !  "And  perhaps  you,  too,"  he  suggested. 

She  twisted  herself,  leaning  her  breast  against  his 


THE  CAPTURE  277 

arm.  Glancing  down  through  the  darkness,  he 
caught  the  tenderness  in  her  eyes  and  the  gleaming 
smoothness  of  her  cheek  and  throat. 

"I  wish  I  could  believe  it,"  she  said  softly;  "to 
stand  beside  you,  making  you  strong.  .  .  .  You 
could  never  love  me ;  but  to  stand  beside  you,  when 
you  rescue  the  world,  that  would  mean  redemption." 

"When  I  rescue  the  world !"  He  laughed  quietly. 
"I'm  no  Varensky.  I  came  here  to  make  money." 

She  swept  aside  his  cynicism.  "You  were  born 
for  this  moment.  And  I,  an  outcast  woman  whom 
the  world  has  hunted,  will  help  you.  Perhaps  I  shall 
give  my  life  for  you."  She  spoke  exultantly.  "I, 
whom  you  have  rejected." 

"You  exaggerate.  Things  may  not  be  as  bad  as 
they  appear.  What  we've  seen  may  be  no  more  than 
a  local  disturbance." 

She  refused  to  argue.  "Be  kind  to  me  while  we're 
together." 

On  the  outskirts  of  Budapest  they  came  to  a 
halt.  The  air  was  tainted  with  a  nauseating  odor. 
Standing  on  a  siding  was  a  long  line  of  freight-cars 
in  process  of  being  shunted.  By  the  light  of  lanterns 
swung  by  men  on  the  tracks,  it  was  possible  to  see 
that  the  freight-cars  were  inhabited.  Figures  hung 
out  of  them  thin  as  skeletons,  entirely  naked  or  clad 
in  flapping  rags.  The  passengers  of  the  express 
had  crowded  to  the  windows,  pointing,  commenting, 
gesticulating. 

Hindwood  turned  to  Santa.    "What  is  it?" 

She  answered  bitterly.     "The  death  train." 


278  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

"But  the  people  aren't  dead." 

"Not  yet.  They're  families  ruined  by  the  war  and 
by  the  peace.  Some  of  them  saw  their  homes  burned 
by  the  Cossacks ;  others  had  their  farms  stolen  to 
pay  the  Allies'  debts.  They're  nobody's  business. 
When  you've  reached  the  end  of  your  tether  in  Hun 
gary,  you  join  the  death  train  and  die  by  inches. 
You  have  no  food,  no  sanitation.  Wherever  you 
halt,  you  spread  contagion.  When  things  have 
grown  too  bad  in  one  place,  you're  dragged  to  an 
other."  She  swallowed  down  a  sob.  "The  train's  full 
of  children — and  you  tell  me  that  you  came  here  to 
make  money." 

On  arrival  at  Budapest  they  found  the  station 
picketed  by  soldiers.  They  were  immediately  con 
ducted  under  an  armed  guard  to  an  office  where  the 
purpose  of  their  journey  was  investigated.  When 
Hindwood  had  explained  their  errand — that  it  had 
to  do  with  the  food-supply — he  was  treated  with 
courtesy  and  given  his  choice  of  hotels.  Santa  chose 
the  Ritz.  A  military  order  was  made  out  for  their 
rooms.  A  safe-conduct  was  handed  them.  A  rick 
ety  conveyance,  with  a  lean  horse  between  the  shafts, 
was  allotted  to  them.  They  were  launched  into  a 
city  quenched  of  lights,  with  a  soldier  seated  beside 
the  driver  for  protection. 

The  wide  avenues  down  which  they  drove  were 
deserted.  They  were  still  unaware  of  what  had 
happened.  They  had  not  dared  to  ask,  lest  any  slip 
of  the  tongue  might  lead  to  trouble.  There  were  no 
signs  of  revolution  in  the  thoroughfares.  They  were 


THE  CAPTURE  279 

hushed  and  reverent  as  the  aisles  of  a  cathedral. 
Every  few  hundred  yards  a  mounted  gendarme  rode 
out  to  challenge  them ;  then,  seeing  the  soldier  on  the 
box,  backed  into  the  shadows.  Only  one  disquieting 
incident  occurred.  The  uneasiness  which  it  caused 
was  due  to  guilty  memories  rather  J;han  to  any 
actual  menace.  As  they  were  turning  towards  the 
Danube,  they  heard  a  sharp  trotting  behind  them.  A 
closed  brougham  swept  past,  drawn  by  a  pair  of 
high-stepping  horses.  The  equipage  was  one  which 
must  formerly  have  belonged  to  the  Royal  Palace; 
it  was  the  ghost  of  a  forgotten  splendor.  Hindwood 
rose  in  his  seat  to  watch  it  vanish.  Then  he  saw 
something  that  made  him  catch  his  breath.  Running 
between  its  wheels  was  a  snow-white  Russian  wolf 
hound. 

Santa  heard  his  commotion.  "What's  the  excite 
ment?" 

"Nothing." 

By  the  time  she  had  raised  herself  to  follow  his 
glance,  the  hint  of  peril  was  gone.  The  next  moment 
they  were  drawing  up  at  the  hotel. 


Ill 


Again  as  the  door  swung  to  behind  them,  they 
were  greeted  by  sounds  of  merriment  and  dancing, 
only  here  the  abandon  was  wilder  than  at  Vienna. 
Hindwood  saw  at  a  glance  that  this  was  no  assem 
blage  of  alien  hucksters,  drawn  from  all  the  world  to 


280  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

gather  bargains.  As  regards  the  men,  they  were 
devil-may-care  and  smart,  of  the  same  type  as  Cap 
tain  Lajos — the  sort  who  would  follow  the  game 
to  the  last  throw  of  the  dice.  Many  of  them  had 
made  no  attempt  to  disguise  their  profession;  they 
were  clad  in  gorgeous  uniforms  of  Hungarian  regi 
ments  long  since  ordered  disbanded  by  the  Allies. 
Their  breasts  were  ablaze  with  Imperial  decorations. 
They  strode  the  marble  floors  with  the  clink  of  spurs 
and  the  rattling  of  swords.  While  they  drugged  the 
midnight  hours  with  laughter  and  debauch,  their 
faces  were  feverish  with  listening  expectancy — the 
expectancy  of  an  event  for  which  they  waited. 

The  women  looked  like  captives  of  a  raid.  Some 
hung  back  timidly;  some  were  bold  with  wine;  all 
were  weary  and  pinched  with  hunger.  Like  the  men, 
they  seemed  only  to  be  acting  a  part.  In  the  midst 
of  recklessness  they  would  give  way  to  distaste,  as 
though  remorseful  of  this  way  of  combating  star 
vation. 

With  the  stench  of  the  death  train  still  in  his 
nostrils,  Hindwood  stared  at  the  spectacle  in  pity 
and  disgust.  "Fiddling  while  Rome  is  burning,"  he 
muttered. 

His  elbow  was  jogged  by  a  black-coated  individual 
with  the  appeasing  manners  of  a  tailor. 

"I  understand  English.    What  is  it  you  desire?" 

Hindwood  swung  round.  "So  much  the  better. 
I  want  what  one  usually  wants  at  a  hotel — accommo 
dation." 

The  man  rubbed  his  hands.     "Sorry,  sir.     We're 


THE  CAPTURE  281 

full  up.    Every  room,  in  fact  every  lounge  is  taken." 

"You'll  have  to  find  something.  I  have  a  military 
order." 

Having  read  it  the  man  returned  the  slip  of  paper. 
"That's  different.  You're  here  on  Government  busi 
ness — for  the  same  purpose  as  these  other  gentlemen, 
I  take  it?" 

Hindwood  replied  non-committally.  "Yes,  on 
Government  business." 

"In  that  case  I'll  give  you  a  room  in  the  base 
ment — a  servant's,  my  last.  It's  all  I  have  to  offer." 

"But  two  rooms  are  necessary.  I  have  my  secre 
tary  with  me — this  lady." 

The  man  shrugged  his  shouldefs.  "To  demand 
the  impossible  is  useless.  To-morrow — who  knows? 
If  things  happen,  I  may  be  able  to  give  you  more 
rooms  than  you  require.  For  the  present  .  .  .  ' 

Seeing  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  arguing, 
Hindwood  consented  to  the  arrangement. 

"The  room  will  be  my  secretary's.  If  you'll  lend 
me  blankets,  I'll  find  a  place  in  the  passage." 

The  room  proved  to  be  poor  in  the  extreme — noth 
ing  but  four  bare  walls  and  an  iron  cot.  When  he 
had  turned  the  key  he  tiptoed  over  to  Santa. 

"What's  this  monstrous  thing  for  which  they're 
waiting — this  something  that  may  happen  to-mor 
row?" 

She  placed  her  hands  in  his,  as  though  she  felt  the 
need  of  protection.  Her  golden  face  was  tragic. 
"War." 

His  common  sense  revolted.     Though  everything 


282  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

seemed  to  prove  her  guess  correct,  he  refused  to  ac 
cept  it.  "War !  It  can't  be.  What  would  any  one 
gain  by  it?  It  was  war  that  produced  all  this  hide 
ous  mess — the  death  train  and  all  that.  Besides, 
how  can  people  fight  who  can  scarcely  crawl  ?  They 
have  one  foot  in  the  grave  already.  Ten  well-fed 
men  could  defeat  a  battalion.  Whatever's  in  the 
wind,  it  isn't  war.  To  launch  a  war  requires  money." 

"With  you  it's  always  money.  To  launch  this 
kind  of  a  war  requires  nothing  but  despair." 

Stepping  back  from  him  tempestuously,  she  flung 
herself  full  length  on  the  cot.  Her  face  was  hidden, 
buried  in  the  pillow.  While  she  lay  there  tense,  the 
sound  of  dance-music,  advancing  and  retreating, 
tapped  dreamily  against  the  walls.  It  spoke  to  him 
of  romance,  of  a  woman  he  could  love,  and  of  pas 
sion  snatched  perilously  before  life  ended,  in  a 
mysterious  city  after  nightfall. 

She  had  raised  herself  and  was  regarding  him 
feverishly.  Her  red  lips  were  parted  as  with  thirst. 

"I  know  you  so  well,"  she  was  saying  softly;  "I 
know  you  because  I  love  you.  You  refuse  to  believe 
it's  war  because  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  sell  and 
bargain.  But  it  is  war — the  sort  of  war  we  saw  at 
the  frontier:  a  war  in  which  weaponless  millions  will 
march  to  the  overthrow  of  embattled  thousands." 

"You're  unjust."  He  spoke  patiently.  "I'm 
unwilling  to  believe  it's  war  because  I  can't  see  any 
reason  for  it." 

"Any  reason!"  Her  eyes  became  twin  storms. 
"Would  you  require  a  reason  if  you'd  seen  your 


THE  CAPTURE  283 

children  die  for  lack  of  bread?  You'd  perish  gladly, 
if  you  could  first  tear  the  throat  out  of  one  person 
who  was  too  well  nourished." 

He  went  and  stood  beside  her,  stooping  over  her, 
placing  his  hand  against  her  forehead.  "You're 
burning.  You've  been  through  too  much.  Get  some 
rest.  To-morrow  we'll  find  Anna  and  perhaps  Var- 
ensky;  it's  more  than  likely  they'll  be  able  to  tell 
us."  He  paused.  "I  know  what  makes  you  so  re 
lentless  ;  it's  your  own  dead  child — " 

Her  arms  shot  up,  dragging  him  down  and  nest 
ling  his  face  against  her  breast.  **Oh,  my  man,  it's 
not  that.  It's  that  I'm  jealous  for  you — so  afraid 
you  may  deceive  yourself  and  miss  your  chance." 

He  stumbled  back  from  the  temptation  of  her 
yielding  body  and  the  comfort  of  her  fragrant 
warmth. 

"My  chance  is  yours ;  we  may  both  have  been 
born  for  this  moment." 

Long  after  he  had  stretched  himself  outside  her 
door,  he  felt  that  in  the  austerity  of  the  four  bare 
walls  she  still  crouched  watching  from  her  bed. 


IV 


He  slept  restlessly.  The  music  and  the  dancing 
rarely  halted.  Once  when  he  roused,  it  was  with  the 
suffocating  sense  that  a  man  was  bending  over  him, 
fumbling  at  the  handle  of  Santa's  door.  As  he  sat 


284  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

up,  he  was  convinced  that  the  man  looked  back  just 
before  he  vanished  around  the  corner. 

When  he  finally  wakened,  it  was  in  the  chill  of 
dawn.  He  was  surrounded  by  a  ghostly  stillness. 
Rising  softly,  he  slipped  down  the  passage  and  out 
into  the  public  rooms  of  the  hotel.  It  was  as  though 
a  wizard  had  waved  his  wand.  The  merry-makers 
lay  strewn  about  carelessly,  wherever  sleep  had 
overtaken  them.  In  the  pale  light  of  morning, 
robbed  of  animation,  their  faces  showed  waxlike  and 
wan.  Swords,  which  had  clattered  martially, 
sprawled  grotesquely  by  crumpled  bodies.  Uniforms 
looked  tarnished,  dresses  shabby.  Girls,  with  their 
lips  parted  and  their  hair  disordered,  lay  with  heads 
stretched  back  in  their  lovers'  arms.  Over  all  was 
spread  the  weariness  of  folly. 

Tiptoeing  from  group  to  group,  he  searched  for 
the  man  who  had  tried  Santa's  door.  Nowhere  could 
he  find  him.  Returning  to  her  room,  he  tapped 
lightly.  He  was  afraid  to  make  more  noise  in  that 
atmosphere  of  menace.  Receiving  no  answer,  he 
pushed  the  door  stealthily  and  peered  across  the 
threshold.  He  had  feared  lest  he  might  find  her 
gone;  there  she  lay  curled  up  in  her  cot,  her  hair 
poured  across  her  pillow,  her  face  cushioned  against 
her  hollowed  arm.  Gray  light  falling  from  a  narrow 
window  clothed  her  with  a  lonely  pathos.  Bending 
over  her,  he  shook  her  shoulder.  "Santa." 

She  sat  up  with  a  start. 

"Has  it  happened?" 

"Not  yet.     They're  sleeping  like  the  dead." 


THE  CAPTURE  285 

"Then  why—?" 

"There's  someone  who  knows  us  here.  He  tried 
your  door.  It  makes  me  think  we're  watched.  We 
can  slip  out  now  and  hunt  up  Varensky.  If  we  wait 
till  later,  we'll  be  followed." 

Her  pupils  dilated,  obscuring  the  grayness  of  her 
eyes ;  they  became  black  pools,  mirroring  her  terror. 
"To  be  caught  with  Varensky  would  mean  death." 

He  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  her  cot.  "I 
didn't  think  you  knew  what  fear  was.  Don't  be 
frightened.  I'll  protect  you." 

"Dear !"  All  of  a  sudden  she  had  become  intensely 
calm.  "Did  you  think  I  was  afraid  for  myself? 
Before  many  days,  perhaps  before  to-day  is  out,  it'll 
be  you  who'll  need  protecting.  I  beg  you,  don't  go 
near  Varensky." 

"But—" 

"Let  me  go  myself,"  she  implored.  When  he 
glanced  away  without  replying,  she  rushed  on  im 
petuously.  "Some  one's  got  to  take  risks.  I  don't 
count.  Your  life  must  be  spared." 

With  an  effort  he  brought  his  gaze  back.  "There's 
Anna." 

Instead  of  the  explosion  he  had  expected,  her  voice 
became  gravely  tender.  "I  forgot.  You  care  for 
her  as  I  care  for  you.  I'm  sorry." 

Her  feet  slipped  to  the  floor;  he  saw  them  marble 
white  against  the  bare,  scrubbed  boards — beautiful 
as  hands,  the  feet  of  a  dancer.  As  he  retreated,  she 
smiled  bravely,  "You  shan't  wait  long." 


286  THE  VANISHING  POINT 


So  far  as  they  were  aware,  no  one  had  noticed 
their  departure.  The  deep  breathing  of  the  motley 
throng  had  been  like  the  beat  of  a  muffled  engine. 
Even  the  night-porter,  who  should  have  been  on 
guard,  had  collapsed  across  his  desk  with  his  face 
buried  in  his  arms. 

They  had  stepped  out  of  the  hotel  into  a  pulseless 
street  where  mists  from  the  Danube  hung  like  cob 
webs.  Hindwood  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  sus 
picion  that  they  were  followed.  He  glanced  back 
repeatedly,  drawing  Santa  sharply  into  doorways  in 
attempt  after  attempt  to  trap  the  tracker.  If  a 
tracker  there  was,  he  never  revealed  himself.  At 
last  Hindwood  realized  that  precautions  were  profit 
less.  The  cessation  of  their  own  footsteps  gave  am 
ple  warning.  A  pursuer  had  only  to  halt  when  they 
halted,  to  escape  detection  behind  the  fog. 

They  scarcely  dared  talk,  and  then  only  in  brief 
whispers.  It  puzzled  him  how  she  could  keep  her 
direction.  It  was  like  tunneling  a  passage  through 
chalk,  which  crumbled,  yielded,  and  caved  in  as  one 
went  forward.  The  whole  world  dripped  sullenly — 
unseen  gutters,  unseen  trees,  treacherous  pavements. 
And  there  was  always  the  drifting  whiteness,  prick 
ing  one's  eyes  as  with  little  darts. 

She  had  gone  too  far  and  turned  back,  feeling  her 
way  along  the  wall.  Before  a  large  double-door 
she  paused  and  knocked.  She  rapped  three  times 


THE  CAPTURE  287 

peculiarly  before  a  grill  was  slipped  back  and  a  ques 
tion  asked.  The  answer  which  she  gave  appeared  to 
be  the  countersign.  A  smaller  door  in  the  double- 
door  was  opened  and  they  entered. 

The  person  who  had  admitted  them  was  a  new 
type  to  Hindwood:  flat  featured,  fair-headed,  blue- 
eyed,  clad  in  a  loose  khaki  shirt,  which  bulged  like 
a  blouse,  and  in  a  pair  of  baggy  breeches  which 
were  tucked  into  high-boots,  roomy  as  pouches.  But 
it  was  the  expression  of  the  man  that  was  most  im 
pressive — his  brooding  appearance  of  enormous  pa 
tience.  Santa  spoke  rapidly  in  a  language  which 
was  neither  German  nor  French.  The  man  nodded 
and  led  the  way  across  a  gloomy  courtyard,  up 
stairs  rotten  with  decay,  into  a  stone  corridor  lined 
with  stout  forbidding  doors. 

"Is  it  a  prison?"     Hindwood  whispered. 

"Little  better.  It's  a  barracks  inhabited  by  the 
brains  of  outcast  Russia — students,  for  the  most 
part,  male  and  female,  who  have  escaped  from  the 
Red  Terror.  Russia  has  no  use  for  brains  at  pres 
ent.  Brains  are  too  dangerous.  Wherever  the  Bol 
shevist  finds  them,  he  blows  them  out.  Many  of  these 
exiles  are  survivors  of  Denikin's  and  Kolchak's 
armies.  Having  tried  to  save  their  country  with 
rifles,  they're  now  preparing  themselves  to  rescue 
her  with  knowledge.  They're  learning  to  be  doctors, 
engineers  and  lawyers,  so  that  they  may  become  the 
soul  of  the  Russia  of  the  future.  Meanwhile  they 
live  anyhow,  sleep  anywhere  and  starve  abominably. 
They're  not  wanted  in  Hungary  or  in  any  European 


288  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

country.  They're  suspected  and  hounded.  The  only 
reason  they've  been  allotted  this  mildewed  dwelling 
is  in  order  that  they  may  be  watched." 

The  guide  had  thrown  open  a  door  and  stood 
signing  to  them,  trying  to  catch  their  attention. 

It  was  a  grim  sight  that  met  their  eyes,  similar  to 
the  one  they  had  left  behind  at  the  hotel  only  a  thou 
sand  times  more  sordid.  The  windows  were  locked 
and  heavily  barred.  The  air  was  poisonous.  The 
room  was  stripped  of  furnishings.  On  bare 
boards  innumerable  human  beings,  without  a  shred  of 
bedding,  sprawled,  drugged  with  sleep,  herded  to 
gether  in  indecent  proximity.  There  was  scarcely 
space  to  walk  between  them.  They  were  of  both 
sexes.  Here  and  there  a  child  lay  folded  in  a 
parent's  arms.  The  men  were  of  all  ages,  but  for 
the  most  part  young  and  still  in  the  tattered  uni 
forms  of  their  defeated  armies.  The  women  were 
scarcely  distinguishable  from  the  men.  Their  heads 
were  cropped.  They  wore  odd  garments  of  mixed 
masculine  and  feminine  attire,  such  as  could  be  pur 
chased  for  next  to  nothing  at  any  rag-shop.  Some 
retained  the  soldier-garb  of  the  Battalions  of  Death. 
As  Hindwood  gazed  across  the  pool  of  mud-colored 
faces,  "Heaven  help  us,  if  this  is  the  soul  of  the 
future  Russia!"  he  thought. 

Suddenly  his  interest  shifted.  In  the  corner  re 
motest  from  the  door,  his  eye  had  caught  the  shining 
of  golden  tresses.  Their  owner's  face  was  turned 
away  from  him;  they  seemed  to  weigh  her  down 
and  were  piled  beneath  her  head  in  a  cushion.  On 


THE  CAPTURE  289 

her  left  lay  an  aged  peasant  woman ;  on  her  right  a 
man  with  a  death-white  face  and  a  head  that  was 
peaked  like  a  dunce's  cap.  The  guide  was  already 
stooping  over  the  man,  touching  him  with  a  strange 
reverence.  The  man  sat  up.  His  green  eyes 
opened.  Hindwood  experienced  the  same  sensation 
of  discomfort  he  had  felt,  when  he  had  first  seen  them 
peering  at  him  above  the  edge  of  the  cliff  at  Seafold. 

Varensky  had  risen.  With  his  peculiarly  catlike 
motion,  he  was  picking  a  path  towards  them.  He 
held  out  his  hand. 

"It  was  brave  of  you  to  come."  And  then  to  Santa, 
"Of  you,  too.  But  of  you  it  was  expected." 

Hindwood  bristled  like  a  dog.  He  was  distrustful 
of  romantic  attitudes.  "Let's  get  down  to  facts. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  it  wasn't  any  lofty 
motive  that  brought  me." 

"No?"  The  eye-brows  arched  themselves  comi 
cally.  "Then  what?" 

"Your  wife's  message." 

"Ah!  I  understand.  She  didn't  tell  me.  You 
see,  she  thinks  I'm  going  to  get  myself  killed  at  last ; 
probably  she  wants  you  to  help  stop  me.  Not  that 
I'm  of  the  least  use  to  her — don't  think  tnat.  But 
she's  the  soul  of  honor.  My  death  would  mean  her 
freedom;  because  of  that  she'd  do  anything  in  her 
power  to  prevent — ' 

Hindwood  drew  himself  erect.  "These  are  matters 
which  it's  not  decent  for  us  to  discuss." 

The  narrow  shoulders  flew  up  into  a  shrug.  "Why 
on  earth  not?  When  things  are  so,  there  can  be 


290  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

nothing  indecent  in  being  frank  about  them.  Is  it 
less  indecent  for  you  to  love  my  wife  than  for  me 
to  tell  that  I  know  you  love  her?  There'd  be  no 
sense  in  your  loving  her  unless  you  both  hoped — 
I  won't  finish  what  I  was  going  to  say ;  your  feelings 
are  so  sensitive."  He  rested  his  hand  not  unkindly 
on  Hindwood's  arm.  "Don't  you  realize,  my  dear 
fellow,  that  you're  to  be  congratulated?  This  hap 
pening  which  means  catastrophe  for  countless  mil 
lions,  for  you  and  Anna  spells  opportunity.  Be 
honest.  You  would  not  have  risked  visiting  me,  if 
you  had  not  realized  that." 

Hindwood  sought  for  spitefulness  in  Varensky's 
tones.  All  he  found  was  the  surge  of  a  quiet  happi 
ness. 

"One  would  think  that  I  wanted  you  to  die !"  he  ex 
claimed  blankly. 

"Well,  don't  you?  Why  shouldn't  you?"  Varen- 
sky  smiled  sadly.  "If  I  could  love  Anna  or  any 
other  woman  the  way  you  do —  But  no — to  me  such 
affections  have  been  denied.  I  love  people  only  in 
crowds,  by  tens  of  thousands  and  by  nations ;  in 
my  heart  there's  no  room  for  more  human  passions. 
I'm  God's  instrument;  the  hour  of  my  testing  is  at 
hand.  These  mildewed  walls  inclose  my  Gethse- 
mane."  He  flung  his  arms  apart  grotesquely;  they 
formed  with  his  body  the  shape  of  a  cross.  The  fire 
of  fanaticism  blazed  in  his  eyes.  "To-morrow  I 
shall  be  crucified."  He  drew  a  shuddering  breath. 

"A  born  actor !"  was  Hindwood's  silent  comment- 
"An  egoist  who  craves  the  lime-light." 


THE  CAPTURE  291 

And  yet,  to  his  chagrin,  he  found  himself  im 
pressed.  He  was  so  deeply  stirred  that  he  dared  not 
trust  himself  to  speak  for  a  moment ;  when  he  did,  it 
was  with  calculated  coldness. 

"You  think  only  of  yourself.  It's  not  you  alone; 
even  those  of  us  who  make  no  claim  to  be  God's 
instruments,  stand  more  than  a  sporting  chance  of 
being  crucified,  as  you  call  it.  There  are  Santa 
and  Anna,  for  instance;  there's  the  collection  of 
wretched  down-and-outs  gathered  in  this  building; 
there  are  the  scarecrows  I  saw  in  the  death  train ; 
there  are  all  the  teeming  swarms  of  human  lice  crawl 
ing  westward  along  a  thousand  roads.  In  the  pres 
ence  of  an  agony  so  widespread,  I  can't  muster  a 
tear  for  your  individual  tragedy.  It's  no  time  for 
theatrics." 

For  an  instant  Varensky's  gaunt  face  quivered. 
Making  an  effort,  with  an  air  of  mocking  courtliness 
he  mastered  his  injured  pride. 

"I  was  mistaken  and  I  ask  your  pardon.  We  all 
have  our  plans  to  make  ahead.  I  supposed  you  were 
here  to  ascertain  approximately  the  hour  at  which  I 
proposed  to —  Shall  we  say,  depart?" 

"You  were  badly  mistaken,"  Hindwood  cut  in  con 
temptuously.  "I'm  here  to  find  out  if  there's  any 
possible  way  in  which  we  can  save  the  situation." 

"Wei" 

Varensky  stared.  He  became  rigid  as  though  he 
were  carved  from  marble.  "We!"  he  repeated 
haughtily. 


292  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

While  Hindwood  was  searching  for  a  clue  to  his 
amazement,  his  next  words  supplied  it. 

"I  thought  it  was  I  who  was  to  save  the  world." 

"Splendid!     You  have  a  plan?" 

Varensky's  eyes  filmed  over.  "Yes.  But  if  I  were 
to  tell  you,  you  wouldn't  understand."  Coming  out 
of  the  clouds,  he  placed  his  hand  tolerantly  on  Hind- 
wood's  shoulder.  "Splendid,  you  said.  So  you 
want  me  to  have  a  plan?  Let's  sit  down  and  talk 
more  quietly.  These  people  are  tired — in  sleep  they 
forget.  So  you  also  have  ambitions  to  become  a 
saviour?" 

It  was  like  the  night  in  the  hut  all  over  again, 
when  they  had  talked  of  Santa's  redemption.  There 
he  sat,  this  discredited  dictator,  half-saint,  half- 
charlatan,  his  knees  drawn  sharply  up  to  his  chin, 
his  white  face  peering  over  them.  The  stale  air 
sighed  with  the  breathing  of  sleepers.  A  child 
whimpered  and  was  hugged  closer  to  the  breast.  In 
the  far  corner  lay  the  desired  woman.  Gazing 
eagerly  into  both  their  eyes  was  the  oriental  coun 
tenance  of  the  other  woman,  for  whom  neither  of 
them  cared. 

"A  saviour !  No.  I  have  no  ambitions  in  that  di 
rection.  But  I  have  a  scheme,"  Hindwood  admitted. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Bread.  I  came  to  sell  bread  for  trade-conces 
sions.  In  Austria  I  found  the  Government  unwilling 
to  purchase.  This  morning,  when  I  consult  with 
Hungarian  officials,  I  may  be  met  with  the  same 
refusal.  What's  the  game?  Why  should  men  in 


THE  CAPTURE  293 

control  of  hungry  nations  refuse  my  help?  For  six 
months  they've  been  urging  me  to  come  to  them. 
Something's  happened — the  signs  of  it  are  every 
where.  Trains  running  westward  are  packed  with 
women.  The  last  sight  we  had  of  Vienna  was  a 
street-riot  and  people  brutally  shot  down.  And 
again  at  the  frontier  there  were  piles  of  dead — not 
only  men:  women  and  children  who  had  been  butch 
ered  to  prevent  them  from  escaping.  Budapest's 
under  military  law.  By  some  error,  Santa  and  I 
on  arrival  were  mistaken  for  conspirators  in  an  army 
plot.  We're  billeted  at  what  appears  to  be  its  head 
quarters — a  place  jammed  with  carousing  officers 
of  supposedly  disbanded  regiments.  What's  in  the 
air?  What  is  this  dreadful  news  which  some  people 
rejoice  over,  from  which  others  flee  in  panic,  but 
which  no  one  dares  to  mention?  If  you  can  tell  me,  I 
shall  know  how  to  act." 

"If  I  can  tell  you — !  Suppose  I  were  to  tell  you 
the  worst,  how  would  you  act  then?" 

"That  depends.  I'm  no  more  unselfish  than  any 
body  else.  At  a  pinch  I  could  forget  my  own  in 
terests  and  ruin  myself  for  the  public  welfare. 
Here's  how  I  stand.  I  have  enough  food  at  my  com 
mand  to  keep  Europe  for  several  weeks  from  actual 
starvation.  If  the  crisis  is  genuine,  that  ought  to 
give  time  for  the  conscience  of  the  civilized  world 
to  be  aroused.  But  even  if  the  world's  conscience 
should  prove  too  sluggish,  I  still  have  a  personal 
fortune  which  would  keep  hunger  at  bay  for  several 
months.  I'm  no  philanthropist — I  should  make  my- 


294  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

self  penniless  reluctantly.  I'm  in  no  sense  your  rival 
for  the  honors  of  Calvary.  My  mission  in  Europe 
is  to  sell  at  a  profit.  So  if  you  can  do  better " 

"What  you're  telling  me,"  Varensky  interrupted, 
"is  that,  if  by  personal  sacrifice  you  could  avert  a 
world  disaster,  you'd  be  willing1  to  give  something 
for  nothing." 

"Precisely.  But  I  must  first  be  convinced  that 
the  circumstances  warrant  it." 

"There's  one  point  you've  overlooked."  Varen- 
sky's  green  eyes  narrowed.  "Up  to  the  moment  you 
entered  this  room,  I  was  fully  persuaded  that  I  was 
the  man  on  whom  the  privilege  of  paying  the  price 
must  fall.  I'd  coveted  the  privilege.  All  my  life 
I'd  worked  for  it.  If  you  rob  me  of  it,  have  you 
reckoned  the  cost?" 

"In  money?" 

"In  something  more  valuable.  If  I  live,  you  can 
never  be  Anna's  husband." 

Hindwood  hated  the  man  for  his  subtlety.  He 
was  being  deliberately  tempted.  He  threw  a  glance 
toward  the  sleeping  woman  in  the  corner  whose  fate, 
as  well  as  his  own,  he  was  deciding.  Close  to  him, 
drawing  nearer,  he  saw  the  pleading  eyes  of  Santa. 
He  gave  his  answer. 

"I  may  be  the  man  who  was  born  for  this  mo 
ment.  Play  fair  by  me;  tell  me  what's  happened." 

Varensky  rocked  himself  slowly  back  and  forth. 
Suddenly  he  came  to  rest. 

"I'm  the  thing  that's  happened.  I'm  responsible 
for  everything.  I've  never  learnt  to  let  bad  alone; 


THE  CAPTURE  295 

in  trying  to  make  things  better,  I  make  them  worse. 
It  was  my  hand  that  shot  down  the  crowd  at  Vienna. 
It  was  I  who  butchered  the  women  and  children  at 
the  frontier.  I'm  the  force  which  drives  behind  the 
human  lice  who  crawl  westward  along  a  thousand 
roads.  You  think  me  mad;  but  listen.  Every  free 
dom  gained  entails  a  new  bondage.  I  helped  to  free 
Russia  from  the  Czar;  in  so  doing,  I  prepared  the 
way  for  Bolshevism.  I've  fought  Bolshevism  with 
my  dreams,  my  happiness,  with  everything  I  pos 
sess.  Bolshevism  is  overthrown.  What  have  I  pro 
duced?  Chaos." 

"Overthrown!  Then  that's  the  meaning  of  it." 
Santa  had  half  risen. 

Varensky  turned  his  death-white  face  on  her, 
chilling  her  enthusiasm.  "It's  collapsed  like  a  pack 
of  cards.  With  it  have  vanished  the  last  of  the  re 
straints.  Every  Russian's  his  own  master  now  to 
choose  his  own  ditch  in  which  to  perish.  We've 
destroyed  a  vision  that  turned  out  to  be  a  night 
mare,  but  we've  set  up  nothing  in  its  stead.  We, 
who  are  idealists,  have  worked  the  final  disillusion. 
We've  made  two  hundred  millions  hopeless.  They're 
fleeing  from  the  emptiness.  The  contagion  of  their 
despair  is  spreading.  You  saw  its  results  in  Vienna. 
It  runs  ahead  of  them ;  they're  already  on  the  march. 
They've  broken  into  Poland.  They're  drawing 
nearer.  How  to  stop  them ?" 

Hindwood's  lips  had  squared  themselves.  "I  can 
stop  them.  My  food-trains  will  be  here  by  to 
morrow.  What  hungry  men  need  is  not  political 


296  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

programs,  but  bread."  Then  he  added  thoughtfully, 
"I  can  stop  them,  if  I'm  not  prevented.  There's 
some  one  who's  playing  a  different  game;  he's  some 
one  who  wants  the  world  to  starve.  That's  what 
Austria's  refusal  meant;  that's  the  meaning  of 
these  secret  signs  of  rejoicing.  He's  bigger  than 
any  nation.  Who  is  he?" 

Varensky  shook  his  head.  "There  was  a  man." 
He  looked  knowingly  at  Santa.  "He  was  drowned." 

Hindwood  jumped  to  his  feet  as  though  there  was 
no  time  to  be  lost.  "I'm  going  to  find  out.  I  have 
an  appointment  with  the  Governor  of  Hungary.  If 
he  rejects  my  offer,  I  shall  demand " 

"And  if  he  refuses ?" 

"I  shall  play  my  winning-card.  Don't  ask  me  what 
it  is.  But  if  I  play  it,  I  shall  need  your  help.  You've 
talked  of  crucifixion:  I  may  provide  you  with  the 

chance.  How  many  of  these ?"  He  pointed  to 

the  sleeping  outcasts. 

Varensky's  eyes  were  shining.  "I've  four  hun 
dred:  three  hundred  veterans  of  Denikin's  and 
Kolchak's  armies  and  a  hundred  girl-soldiers  of  the 
Battalions  of  Death." 

"Have  them  warned." 

As  he  turned  on  his  heel,  he  saw  that  Anna  had 
wakened.  She  cried  out  after  him.  He  dared  not 
face  her.  Leaping  down  the  stairs,  he  went  at  a 
run  across  the  courtyard.  It  was  only  when  the 
door  into  the  street  had  closed  behind  him,  that  he 
realized  that  Santa  was  panting  at  his  elbow. 


THE  CAPTURE  £97 


VI 


Mists  were  clearing.  The  sun  had  emerged  fiery 
above  a  mountain-range  of  clouds.  As  they  hur 
ried  in  search  of  their  hotel,  they  caught  glimpses 
of  the  Danube,  spanned  by  many  bridges,  and  on  the 
further  bank  the  palace-crowned  heights  of  Buda. 
The  ancient  city  looked  imperially  beautiful.  There 
was  a  touch  of  the  East  about  it,  a  lavishness  and 
rose-tinted  whiteness.  Its  quays  and  pavements 
shone  wet,  as  though  they  had  been  daubed  with 
lacquer.  It  seemed  incredible  that  behind  its  gold- 
splashed  walls  the  ghosts  of  hunger  gathered. 

During  their  absence  from  the  Ritz,  a  transfor 
mation  had  been  effected.  All  signs  of  disorder  had 
been  banished.  In  place  of  the  untimely  Baccha 
nalians,  stiff-bosomed  waiters  stood  guard  over  neat 
tables  with  a  solicitous  air  which  was  bewilderingly 
normal.  Even  the  breakfast  menu  gave  the  lie  to 
starvation. 

They  took  their  seats  in  silence,  eating  without 
interest  whatever  was  set  before  them.  Hindwood's 
sensations  were  those  of  a  man  who  has  given 
way  to  his  emotions  at  a  theatre.  It  was  as  though 
the  lights  had  gone  up,  shaming  him  in  public. 
There  had  been  nothing  to  warrant  his  surrender 
to  sentiment.  He  totaled  up  the  accumulated  incen 
tives  :  he  had  witnessed  a  street-riot,  people  slain  at 
the  frontier,  the  hideous  contrast  between  the  death 
train  and  dancing — and  last  of  all  Varensky.  But 


298  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

these  things  in  themselves  constituted  no  argument ; 
the  cause  that  lay  behind  them  was  still  conjectural. 
As  for  Varensky,  whatever  he  had  said  was  unre 
liable.  His  wish  was  parent  to  his  thought.  He 
was  a  man  born  to  stir  up  turbulences,  which  he 
considered  it  his  mission  to  pacify.  He  was  dan 
gerous  as  a  forest-fire:  one  spark  of  his  wild  ideal 
ism  made  the  whole  world  lurid.  In  the  breath  of 
adversity  he  became  a  sheet  of  flame,  destructive 
and  self-destroying.  His  goal  was  the  vanishing- 
point,  in  the  No  Man's  Land  between  desire  and 
things  attainable. 

Hindwood  writhed  at  remembering  the  ease  with 
which  his  judgment  had  been  unseated.  In  his 
weakness  he  had  given  a  promise,  which  it  would  be 
folly  to  fulfill  and  dishonorable  to  withdraw.  He 
glanced  across  at  Santa.  How  was  she  taking  this 
return  to  normality? 

She  met  his  eyes  with  passionate  adoration.  "It 
was  god-like  of  you.'* 

He  pretended  ignorance.     "What?" 

"Your  self-denial.  You've  given  up  everything — 
Anna,  ambition,  money — all  the  things  you  wor 
ship." 

He  assumed  a  judicial  expression.  "Perhaps  not. 
It  mayn't  be  necessary." 

"But  it  will." 

"If  it  is,"  he  said,  "I  shall  stick  to  my  contract. 
But  I've  reason  to  believe  we've  exaggerated." 

"Would  to  God  we  had !" 

Her  fervor  disturbed  him.     He  leaned  across  the 


THE  CAPTURE  299 

table.  "You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  accept  this 
bogey  story  about  starving  millions  marching? 
There's  a  sense  of  security  this  morning.  Surely 
you  must  have  felt  it?'* 

She  shook  her  head.  "We've  had  a  meal — that's 
all.  Within  a  mile  from  here  I  could  show  you  a 
hospital  where  five  hundred  babies  sit  shivering  like 
monkeys.  They're  wrapped  in  paper;  they've  never 
known  what  it  was  not  to  be  hungry  from  the  day 
they  were  born.  I  could  take  you  to  the  work 
men's  quarter,  where  naked  men  and  women  would 
squirm  at  your  feet  like  dogs ;  they're  too  weak  to 
walk.  I  could  lead  you  past  the  bread-lines,  already 
forming 

He  stayed  her  by  covering  her  hand.  "I'm  not 
denying  it.  When  countries  make  wars  they  have 
to  pay  penalties." 

The  storm  that  was  brewing  betrayed  itself  in 
her  eyes.  "What  are  you  denying?" 

"Don't  let's  make  a  scene,"  he  urged.  "My  prom 
ise  holds  if  I  find  that  circumstances  warrant  it. 
In  a  little  while  I'm  seeing  the  Governor  of  Hun 
gary;  after  that  I'll  be  sure.  While  I'm  gone,  I 
have  one  request  to  make  of  you:  keep  your  room 
and  talk  to  nobody." 

She  rose  from  the  table  in  suppressed  defiance. 

"Why?" 

"For  your  own  safety.  It  was  lucky  I  slept  across 
your  threshold  last  night.  Your  door  was  tried." 

Her  smile  accused  him.     "By  whom?" 


300  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

"If  I'm  not  mistaken,  by  the  man  who  after 
wards  tracked  us  through  the  fog." 

She  turned  away  as  though  she  were  finished  with 
him.  When  she  found  that  he  was  following,  she 
delivered  a  parting  shot.  "You  told  me  this  to 
frighten  me.  Did  you  think  you  could  make  me 
your  accomplice  in  cowardice?" 


VII 


So  these  were  the  rewards  of  knight-errantry! 
In  his  anger  he  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  her.  He  was 
free  at  last.  She'd  been  nothing  but  an  embarrass 
ment.  If  she  were  to  attempt  a  reconciliation,  he 
would  turn  his  back  on  her.  It  wasn't  likely  that 
he'd  put  his  neck  into  the  same  noose  twice. 

Little  by  little  from  resenting  her,  he  began  to 
suspect  her.  Had  she  been  using  him  as  a  cat's-paw 
in  a  deeper  game?  Every  man  with  whom  she  had 
ever  associated,  she  had  destroyed;  could  she  be 
expected  to  show  more  mercy  to  a  man  by  whom  she 
had  been  rejected?  Her  husband's  words  came 
back:  "When  she  has  added  you  to  her  list  of  vic 
tims,  if  she  gives  you  time  before  she  kills  you, 
remember  that  I  warned  you." 

Everything  to  do  with  her  became  distorted  when 
interpreted  in  the  light  of  treachery.  The  pathos 
of  her  unrequited  affection  had  been  a  mask;  her 
humanitarianism  had  been  a  cloak  for  her  designs. 
When  he  retraced  his  relations  with  her,  it  seemed 


THE  CAPTURE  301 

glaringly  probable  that  from  the  start  she  had  been 
the  agent  of  his  financial  rivals,  placed  by  them  on 
board  the  Ryndam  with  the  definite  intention  of  ac 
complishing  his  ruin.  Except  for  her  final  error  in 
tactics,  she  would  have  attained  her  object.  He  had 
escaped  by  the  narrowest  of  margins. 

But  the  other  people  who  had  come  upon  the  scene, 
where  did  they  stand?  Were  they  her  puppets, 
jumping  whichever  way  she  pulled  the  wires,  or 
were  they  her  active  co-conspirators  ?  Varensky  and 
the  Little  Grandmother  were  undoubtedly  her  pup 
pets  ;  she  employed  their  enthusiasms  to  serve  her 
purposes.  Anna  was  her  victim — a  woman  wronged 
and  cheated,  infinitely  dear  to  him  and  tragic.  It 
was  Captain  Lajos  who  troubled  him.  The  more 
he  thought  about  him,  the  more  certain  he  became 
that  the  Captain  and  Santa  were  hand  in  glove. 
The  farce  which  they  had  enacted  on  the  train  had 
been  prearranged  with  a  view  to  intimidating  him. 
His  most  unnerving  information,  concerning  the 
menace  of  starving  millions,  had  come  from  the 
Captain.  And  there  was  a  further  fact,  which  had 
been  disquieting  him  all  morning:  it  was  Captain 
Lajos  who  had  tried  Santa's  door  last  night. 

What  did  they  think  to  gain  by  their  plotting? 
Having  pondered  the  conundrum,  he  decided  that 
their  object  was  to  thwart  his  schemes  for  grasping 
world-power,  and  that  the  means  they  had  chosen 
were  to  compel  him  to  give  for  nothing  the  hoards 
of  food  which  he  had  intended  that  Europe  should 
buy. 


302  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

Well  aware  that  this  theory  was  far  from  cover 
ing  all  the  facts,  he  was  still  feeling  his  way  through 
a  quagmire  of  surmise,  when  a  visitor  was  announced. 
In  the  foyer  he  found  an  officer,  resplendently  uni 
formed,  waiting  to  escort  him  to  his  audience  at  the 
Royal  Palace.  He  was  whizzed  away  in  a  handsome 
car.  As  he  traveled,  his  companion  entertained 
him  with  anecdotes,  grimly  humorous,  of  Bela  Kun's 
reign  of  terror. 

"Experiments  of  that  sort  soon  disprove  them 
selves,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "We  live  through  them 
and  go  on  again." 

"And  your  country  is  going  on  again?"  Hindwood 
inquired. 

"Emphatically.  Signs  of  revival  are  already 
apparent." 

"But  what  about  Russia?  How's  revival  possible 
without  security?" 

The  officer  laughed  carelessly.  "I  catch  your 
meaning ;  you've  heard  this  latest  about  Bolshevism's 
downfall.  In  our  part  of  the  world  we  pay  no  heed 
to  rumors ;  they're  inventions  of  political  opportu 
nists  or  of  gamblers  in  the  international  exchange. 
Even  if  this  latest  is  true,  it's  the  best  thing  that 
could  have  happened." 

Hindwood  twisted  in  his  seat  that  he  might  lose 
nothing  of  his  companion's  expression.  "The  best 
thing  in  the  long  run — that's  granted.  But  mean 
while,  because  of  the  breakdown  in  organization, 
over  a  hundred  million  Russians  are  likely  to  die." 

Again    the    officer    laughed,    stretching    his    long 


THE  CAPTURE  303 

legs.  "The  fittest  will  survive.  One  has  to  die 
somehow.  The  last  war  was  fought  because  the 
world  was  too  crowded.  Famine's  nature's  cure  for 
overpopulation." 

The  remark  sounded  singularly  ill-timed,  coming 
from  a  man  whose  country  was  also  starving. 
Hindwood  frowned.  "A  heartless  cure  and,  thank 
goodness,  not  the  only  one." 

"Not  more  heartless  than  civilized  society's,  which 
encourages  armed  nations  to  strangle  each  other 
with  every  filthy  invention  of  science.  When  you 
forbid  Nature  to  correct  matters  in  her  own  way, 
sooner  or  later  you  find  yourself  with  a  war  on  your 
hands.  The  matter's  very  simple:  so  many  mouths 
to  fill  and  so  many  rations.  When  the  mouths  are 
in  excess  of  the  rations,  some  one  has  to  go  short. 
The  people  who  are  selected  to  go  short  can  either 
drop  in  their  tracks  or  fight.  If  they  fight  and 
win,  the  result's  the  same — some  one  else  has  to  go 
without.  The  adjustment's  automatic." 

"The  thought  of  death,"  Hindwood  suggested 
quietly,  "especially  of  other  people's  death,  doesn't 
seem  to  trouble  you." 

"That's  natural.  Killing  and  dying  are  my 
trade." 

Brutal  as  was  the  point  of  view,  after  Santa's 
sentimental  fallacies,  there  was  something  honest  and 
direct  about  these  bald  assertions. 

Kindwood  spoke  again.  "What  applies  to  Russia, 
applies  equally  to  Hungary.  My  errand  at  the 
Palace  is  to  offer  sufficient  food  to  keep  your  coun- 


304  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

try  alive.  According  to  your  theory,  I'm  interfer 
ing  with  Nature's  laws.  I'm  doing  something  eco 
nomically  immoral.  I  ought  to  leave  you  to  your 
fate." 

To  his  amazement  he  was  met  with  a  polite  con 
currence.  "That's  how  I  regard  it." 

It  was  impossible  to  credit  the  man's  sincerity. 
Hindwood  glanced  aside,  irritated  and  shocked.  He 
was  seeking  a  motive  for  such  disinterested  frank 
ness.  There  was  nothing  more  to  say. 

He  had  been  so  much  absorbed  in  the  conversa 
tion  that  he  had  not  noticed  their  direction.  They 
were  skimming  high  above  the  Danube,  crossing  a 
bridge  that  spanned  the  sunlit  gulf  in  giant  strides. 
Behind  lay  Pest,  modern  as  a  second  Paris ;  in  front 
lay  Buda,  ancient  and  scarcely  Christian,  still  bear 
ing  the  marks  of  its  Turkish  occupation.  On  reach 
ing  the  further  bank,  the  ascent  to  the  Palace  begun 
to  climb. 

It  was  just  as  they  were  reaching  the  top  that 
Hindwood  was  for  a  second  time  startled  by  the 
ghost  of  memory.  Peering  down  on  him  from  the 
ramparts,  with  its  head  between  its  paws,  was  a 
snow-white  Russian  wolf-hound.  The  next  moment 
they  had  passed  beneath  an  arch,  between  saluting 
sentries,  and  had  halted  in  the  Palace-yard. 

VIII 

The  Yard  was  an  immobile  sea,  of  faces.  As  far 
as  eye  could  reach,  soldiers  were  drawn  up  in 


THE  CAPTURE  305 

close  formation.  It  was  clear  that  this  was  no 
ceremonial  parade.  The  men  were  in  full  marching 
order;  their  field-kitchens  were  smoking  in  the  back 
ground.  They  had  the  look  of  troops  equipped  for 
action,  expecting  to  take  the  offensive  at  any  mo 
ment.  This  much  he  saw  as  he  was  hurried  into 
the  Palace,  before  the  great  doors  clanged  behind 
him. 

He  found  himself  on  the  threshold  of  a  magnifi 
cence  that  he  had  not  imagined  existed.  Everywhere 
his  eyes  rested,  they  encountered  riches  accumulated 
through  the  centuries.  Pictures  and  tapestries 
gazed  down  on  him  from  the  walls,  chronicling  the 
glory  of  the  bygone  Hapsburgs.  Suits  of  mail, 
gold-inlaid  and  gem-studded,  stood  like  knights  of 
old,  leaning  on  their  swords.  He  followed  his  escort 
up  a  marble  staircase,  along  endless  corridors,  from 
which  doors  opened  into  silent  apartments,  giving 
yet  fresh  vistas  of  royal  splendors. 

At  last,  in  the  far  distance,  the  passage  was 
blocked  by  a  gigantic  figure  that  might  have  escaped 
from  Grand  Opera;  it  stood  so  stiff  and  motionless 
that  he  mistook  it  for  a  wax-work.  It  was  garbed  as 
a  halberdier,  in  parti-colored  hose  and  shining 
armor.  Only  when  the  eyes  moved  did  he  realize 
that  he  was  gazing  at  one  of  the  Palace-guards. 
When  the  password  had  been  given,  they  were  al 
lowed  to  slip  behind  a  curtain.  In  the  ante-room 
he  was  told  to  wait.  His  escort  vanished  through  the 
inner-doors.  A  moment  later  the  doors  reopened 
and  his  escort  beckoned. 


306  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

He  was  aware  of  a  blaze  of  light,  lofty  walls,  tall 
windows,  a  tapestried  room  ornately  furnished  and 
a  treacherously  polished  expanse  of  floor.  A  man 
was  rising  from  behind  an  ormolu  table.  He  was 
a  man  utterly  simple  and  modern — the  last  man  one 
would  have  expected  to  find  in  the  pomp  of  medieval 
surroundings.  His  face  was  clean-shaven,  bluff  and 
wind-tanned.  In  his  navy-blue  suit  he  looked  more 
like  a  yachtsman  than  the  Governor  of  a  State. 

He  was  approaching  with  his  hand  outstretched. 
"I  couldn't  do  less  than  receive  you,"  he  was  saying. 

The  words,  though  spoken  pleasantly,  sounded 
like  a  dismissal. 

"Perhaps  your  Excellency  has  forgotten  the  pur 
pose  of  my  errand?'* 

"Not  in  the  least.  Let's  sit  down;  we  can  talk 
more  informally.  The  trouble  is  that  you've  come 
too  late.  Crises  as  acute  as  ours  have  a  knack  of 
settling  themselves." 

Hindwood  accepted  a  cigarette  that  was  proffered. 
He  took  his  time  while  he  lit  it.  "Your  solu 
tion  is  mustering  in  the  Palace-yard.  My  food- 
supplies  are  no  longer  needed.  Is  that  what  you 
intend  me  to  understand?" 

"Exactly." 

"Your  Excellency  spoke  just  now  of  crises  set 
tling  themselves.  Did  you  mean  that  so  many  of 
your  countrymen  have  died  that  at  last  there's 
sufficient  food  to  go  round?" 

"Far  from  it.    Our  shortage  is  greater  than  ever.5* 

"I  judged  as  much."     Hindwood  tapped  his  ash 


THE  CAPTURE  307 

casually.  "I  only  arrived  last  night,  but  in  the 
time  I've  been  in  Budapest  I've  seen  the  death-train, 
the  bread-lines,  the  utter  destitution.  I've  reason 
to  believe  that  Bolshevism  has  collapsed  and  that 
millions  of  outcast  Russians  are  marching.  They're 
moving  westward." 

He  paused,  himself  skeptical  of  the  preposterous 
assertion  he  was  about  to  make.  Then  he  remem 
bered  the  words  he  had  learnt  from  Captain  Lajos 
and  repeated  them  like  a  lesson. 

"They're  sweeping  westward  like  a  pestilence. 
They're  loping  like  gaunt  wolves.  They're  drawing 
nearer,  like  Death  swinging  his  scythe.  Poland  will 
go  down  before  them  first.  Its  famished  people  will 
join  them.  Your  turn  will  come  next.  The  march 
will  never  halt  till  the  empty  bellies  have  been  filled. 
They  can't  be  filled  till  the  whole  of  Europe  has  been 

swamped  by  revolution,  unless "  He  paused 

again,  waiting  for  encouragement.  When  the  steady 
gray  eyes  still  regarded  him  attentively,  he  con 
tinued,  "Unless  I  fill  them." 

"Or  unless,"  said  his  Excellency  like  a  man  com 
menting  on  the  weather,  "I  destroy  them." 

There  was  a  deep  quiet.  So  Varensky  had  been  a 
true  prophet.  It  was  the  end  of  the  world  they  were 
discussing — the  end  of  truth,  justice,  mercy,  every 
thing  that  was  kind. 

Across  the  silence  a  bugle-call  spurted  like  a 
.stream  of  blood. 

"You  see  my  position?"  his  Excellency  resumed 
reasonably.  "If  I  buy  from  you,  I  prolong  the 


308  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

agony;  worse  still,  I  run  my  country  further  into 
debt.  If  I  give  the  call  to  arms,  many  of  us  will 
die ;  but  it's  better  to  die  fighting  than  from  hunger. 
Besides,  in  the  topsy-turvydom  of  war,  who  knows, 
we  may  find  ourselves  arrayed  on  the  winning  side." 

Hindwood  was  too  stunned  to  think  quickly.  He 
was  still  refusing  to  believe  the  worst.  "I  miss  your 
point.  Would  your  Excellency  mind  explaining?" 

"My  point's  simple  enough.  The  condition  of 
Hungary  and  of  the  whole  of  Central  Europe  is  due 
to  two  causes:  the  first  that  we  made  a  world-war; 
the  second  that  we  lost  it.  The  victors  had  a  right 
to  exact  a  penalty,  but  look  at  what  they've  done. 
We  were  exhausted;  nevertheless,  if  they'd  told  us 
what  we  owed  them,  we'd  have  paid  them.  Instead 
of  that,  they  cloaked  revenge  with  idealism.  They 
constituted  themselves  evangelists,  fore-ordained  to 
reform  us.  With  their  gospel  of  self-determination, 
they  gave  every  racial  hostility  within  our  borders 
a  voice.  They  carved  us  up  into  bickering  factions, 
which  they  called  nations,  and  bestowed  on  them  the 
power  to  make  themselves  annoying  behind  new  fron 
tiers.  They  dipped  their  hands  into  our  national 
resources  and  made  gifts  to  their  favorites.  Tran 
sylvania  was  our  granary;  it  went  to  Rumania. 
Bohemia  was  our  coal-supply;  the  Czechs  have  it, 
Hungary  is  no  longer  self-supporting.  We  have  our 
factories,  but  no  fuel  to  run  them ;  our  skilled  work 
men,  but  no  means  of  employing  them.  On  every 
side  we're  fenced  in  by  mushroom  democracies  draw 
ing  sustenance  from  what  was  once  our  body.  The 


THE  CAPTURE  309 

wrong  they  have  done  us  is  the  motive  of  their  hate. 
We  European  countries  fall  into  three  categories: 
the  robbers,  the  receivers  of  stolen  goods  and  the 
pillaged.  There's  no  intercourse  between  us ;  con 
fidence  is  at  an  end.  Our  currency  has  become 
worthless  as  the  paper  on  which  it's  printed. 
There's  no  flow  of  trade.  We  each  have  too  much 
of  one  commodity  and  none  whatsoever  of  others — 
too  many  factories  here,  too  much  wheat  there,  too 
much  coal  in  another  place.  We're  rival  storekeep 
ers,  overstocked  in  certain  lines,  who  refuse  to  take 
down  our  shutters.  If  we  could  forget  our  quarrels 
and  club  together,  we'd  have  all  the  means  of  life. 
We  deserve  our  fate,  you'll  say.  But  no — it  was  the 
Allies'  surgeons  who  carved  us  into  impotence  and 
on  top  of  that  imposed  indemnities.  We  have  noth 
ing  to  eat,  so  we  prefer  to  fight." 

"But  what  do  you  gain  by  it?" 

His  Excellency  smiled.  "Everything  or  nothing. 
We  can't  be  worse  off.  The  Russian  menace  may 
prove  to  be  our  salvation.  The  Red  Terror  has 
vanished;  the  Famine  Terror  has  taken  its  place. 
If  the  starving  hordes  pouring  westwards  aren't 
halted,  civilization  will  be  blotted  out  by  savagery. 
And  who's  to  halt  them?  Not  the  Allies.  Their 
common  people  are  rebellious ;  they  know  that  in 
the  last  war  they  were  as  much  cheated  and  ex 
ploited  as  any  of  the  enemy  whom  they  routed.  And 
not  their  politicians  and  profiteers ;  they're  too 
bloated  with  their  spoils.  It's  the  story  of  Rome 
repeating  itself.  The  obesity  which  follows  victory 


310  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

has  conquered  the  conquerors.  Their  fighting  days 
are  ended;  they'll  have  to  hire  mercenaries.  The 
only  mercenaries  available  are  the  nations  they  have 
trampled.  Hungary  holds  herself  for  hire  at  a 
price." 

"What  price?" 

"The  restoration  of  her  old  frontiers." 

Hindwood  spoke  eagerly.  "No  one  shall  die. 
We've  had  enough  of  dying.  I  have  a  better  solu 
tion — bread.  My  food-trains  should  be  arriving  to 
night  or  to-morrow.  I  wired  for  them  before  I  left 
Vienna.  I'll  build  a  wall  of  bread  from  the  Black 
Sea  to  the  Baltic." 

"And  who'll  pay  you  ?" 

"No  one." 

The  answer  had  been  totally  unexpected.  His 
Excellency  glanced  sharply  across  his  shoulder  as 
though  seeking  advice.  Hindwood  followed  his  direc 
tion  and  saw  to  his  amazement  that  the  tapestry, 
hanging  behind  the  ormolu  table,  was  agitated. 
Throughout  the  interview  an  unseen  audience  had 
been  present.  His  Excellency  turned  back. 

"You  shall  neither  give  nor  sell.  I  may  admire 
your  humanity,  but  in  Hungary  I  forbid  you  to 
build  what  you  so  picturesquely  call  your  wall  of 
bread.  Austria,  as  I  know,  has  already  refused  you ; 
in  Poland  you  will  receive  the  same  answer.  Things 
have  advanced  too  far  for  there  to  be  any  harm  in 
telling  you;  moreover,  I  owe  it  to  you  to  be  frank. 
I  represent  a  class  which  the  democracy  of  the 
Allies  has  totally  disinherited — the  class  of  the 


THE  CAPTURE  311 

landed  gentry  and  the  old  nobility.  However  mat 
ters  might  improve  in  our  respective  countries,  our 
lot  would  be  in  no  way  benefited.  The  Peace  of  the 
Allies  uprooted  aristocracy  and  planted  in  its  stead 
a  raw  Republicanism.  The  estates  of  men  like  my 
self,  whether  Austrian,  Polish,  Russian  or  Hunga 
rian,  have  been  in  our  families  for  centuries.  They 
were  grants  from  Kings  for  loyalty  and  services. 
Now  that  our  Kings  have  been  sent  into  exile,  our 
entire  status  is  in  jeopardy.  Our  rank  and  privi 
leges  have  become  a  jest.  To-morrow  or  the  next 
day,  where  it  has  not  happened  already,  we  shall 
join  our  Kings  in  banishment;  our  wealth  will  be 
confiscated.  The  excuse  of  a  new  war  is  the  chance 
of  European  Monarchists.  Banded  together,  we 
may  snatch  back  our  authority  and  set  up  the 
thrones  which  the  Allies  have  toppled.  So  long  as 
the  people  starve,  they  will  follow  us.  Monarchy 
is  the  symbol  of  their  lost  contentment ;  they'll  fight 
for  it  if  we  make  its  restoration  their  battle-cry. 
But  if  once  we  were  to  allow  you  to  give  them 
bread " 

Hindwood  sprang  to  his  feet.  The  time  had  come 
to  play  his  winning-card.  "They  would  lay  down 
their  arms,"  he  cried  triumphantly.  "They  shall  lay 
them  down.  By  to-morrow  they  shall  be  fed." 

Again  the  tapestry  rustled.  For  a  moment  it 
seemed  that  some  one  was  about  to  disclose  himself. 
Then  all  grew  quiet. 

"I  have  given  you  your  answer,'*  said  his  Excel 
lency. 


312  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

Hindwood  laughed.  "And  I  can  force  your  hand. 
I  shall  appeal  to  the  people  over  your  head." 

Without  further  ceremony,  he  swung  round  on  his 
heel  and  departed. 

On  regaining  the  hotel  he  went  in  search  of  Santa. 
She  was  not  there.  He  betook  himself  to  her  room 
to  await  her  coming.  One  hour,  two  hours  slipped 
by.  He  began  to  be  anxious.  In  the  appearance 
of  the  room  there  was  nothing  to  distress  him;  all 
her  belongings  were  intact.  When  he  made  inquiries 
of  the  hotel  staff,  they  professed  entire  ignorance  of 
her  whereabouts. 

Apart  from  the  concern  he  felt  for  her  safety,  she 
was  utterly  essential  to  his  plans.  It  was  necessary 
that  he  should  get  in  touch  with  Varensky;  without 
Varensky  and  his  four  hundred  veterans  he  was  help 
less.  When  his  food-trains  arrived,  he  would  need 
them.  He  made  repeated  efforts  to  rediscover  the 
mildewed  barracks ;  every  time  he  missed  his  direc 
tion.  For  fear  of  spies,  he  did  not  dare  to  ask;  he 
remembered  Santa's  warning,  that  to  be  seen  with 
Varensky  meant  death.  Day  faded.  Darkness  fell. 
She  had  not  returned. 

It  was  nearing  midnight  when  word  reached  him 
that  the  first  of  his  trains  was  in  the  freight-yard. 
It  had  been  given  the  right  of  way  from  Holland  and 
had  been  rushed  straight  through  under  an  armed 
guard.  He  was  powerless  to  turn  the  information  to 
account.  Wearied  with  anxiety,  he  had  begun  to 
prepare  for  bed,  when,  without  knocking,  the  door 


THE  CAPTURE  313 

was  burst  open.  Captain  Lajos  entered.  His  face 
was  haggard.  He  was  fierce  and  breathless. 

"You've  heard?" 

"I've  heard  nothing." 

"She's  been  captured." 

"By  whom?" 

"Prince  Rogovich." 

Hindwood  clapped  his  hand  to  his  forehead. 
Either  he  or  this  man  was  mad. 

"It's  impossible.     Rogovich  is  dead." 

"And  I  tell  you  he's  at  the  Palace.  He  was  there 
behind  the  tapestry  this  morning.  She's  with  him 
now  and  he's  torturing  her." 

"Then  why  are  you  here,  if  you  care  for  her  so 
much?" 

"That  you  may  help  me  rescue  her." 


CHAPTER  THE  EIGHTH 


CPURRED  into  haste  by  the  C«ptainv$  air  of 
**•*  caLuaitT.  Ilindiu«d  lad  conmoKed  to  dress. 
Daring  the  few  ••antes  that  it  took  him  to  hurry 
oaghtfaiioadT;  with  the  result 


obctiaKleiy  om  Ac  «%e  of  the  bed.    M 

the  beBeV  th»t  he  w«s  being  followed,  the 
C*pUi»  lad  led  the  war  into  the  passage.  He  had 
•Mr  li  ••••••J  aad  stood  S&mg  tike  doonnt  r.  a  tup- 


o  time  to  lose*9  he  rapped  ooi, 
ered  Inn  ralaij      *If  TOO.  were  seat 
can  dk>  it  here  «3  cooreuentl    as 


j.    The  Captain 


If  mr  errand  were  known,  it  woold 


he  I  who  woold  he  taurfcdUdL    She's  in  lore  with  joa 

11  1  1*i     T.  T    niBjJhl  jn  i     It's  the  &et  that  joa"re 
314 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  315 

my  rival  in  her  affections  that  makes  you  the  one 
man  in  Budapest  whom  I  can  trust.  There'll  be 
bloodshed " 

"Go  slower,"  Hindwood  interrupted.  "Put  your 
self  in  my  place.  You  know  too  much — far  more 
than  seems  healthy.  You  know  that  this  morning 
when  I  was  with  the  Governor,  there  was  an  unseen 
listener  behind  the  tapestry.  You  assert,  that  he 
was  a  man  whom  all  the  world  believes  to  be  dead. 
If  you'll  think  back  to  our  journey  from  Calais, 
you'll  remember  that  the  reason  for  his  having  been 
murdered  formed  your  chief  topic  of  conversation. 
Seeing  that  you  know  so  much,  you're  probably 
aware  that  my  interview  with  the  Governor  ended 
in  a  threat.  To  make  that  threat  effective,  the  co 
operation  of  the  woman  whom  you  first  supposed  to 
be  my  wife  and  afterwards  discovered  to  be  my  sec 
retary  is  absolutely  necessary.  On  my  return  from 
the  Palace  she  had  vanished.  Here  again,  you  pre 
tend  to  know  more  than  I  do ;  at  close  on  midnight 
you  come  bursting  into  my  room,  demanding  that  I 
accompany  you  to  her  rescue." 

The  Captain  stared  dully.  "Every  second  counts. 
What  is  it  that  you  wish  me  to  tell?'* 

"Why  you've  hung  on  my  trail  from  Calais  until 
now." 

"Eh!"  His  expression  became  embarrassed;  then 
he  raised  his  head  with  a  fearless  gesture.  "I  see 
what  you're  driving  at.  I  acknowledge  that  my 
movements  are  open  to  misinterpretation.  But  I 
didn't  follow  you;  it  was  she  whom  I  followed.  As 


316  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

I  told  you  in  our  first  conversation,  I  was  returning 
from  England  where  Fd  been  sent  by  my  Govern 
ment  to  intercept  Prince  Rogovich  with  important 
despatches.  The  moment  I  clapped  my  eyes  on  your 
traveling  companion,  I  recognized  in  her  a  startling 
resemblance;  it  was  to  a  woman  I  had  adored.  She 
was  far  beyond  me — the  mistress  of  archdukes  and 
for  a  brief  while  of  an  emperor.  The  nearest  I  ever 
came  to  touching  her  was  when  I  was  swept  by  her 
train  at  Court  functions."  He  paused  dramatically. 
"During  the  war  she  was  shot  by  the  enemies  of  my 
country.  Infamous  things  were  said  of  her.  If  they 
were  true,  they  would  make  no  difference  to  my  love. 
No  difference,  do  you  understand?"  Again  he 
paused.  "What  else?" 

Hindwood  narrowed  his  eyes.  "Each  time  I've 
met  you,  you've  harped  on  the  same  theme — Prince 
Rogovich.  Up  to  now  I've  not  thought  it  necessary 
to  tell  you:  I  knew  this  Prince  Rogovich.  Besides 
myself,  there  was  probably  only  one  other  person 
who  spoke  with  him  before  his  end.  What  makes 
you  so  certain  that  it  was  a  man,  presumed  to  have 
been  drowned  in  the  English  Channel,  who  spied  on 
me  this  morning  from  behind  the  tapestry?" 

"I  was  beside  him.  I'm  his  bodyguard — if  you 
like,  his  secretary.  I've  just  come  from  him.  Can 
you  have  stronger  proof  than  that?"  Suddenly  the 
Captain's  patience  broke  down.  "How  many  more 
questions?  God  knows  what's  happening." 

Hindwood  had  risen.  "There  are  several.  Why 
did  he  disappear?" 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  317 

"He  has  not  said." 

"What  makes  you  require  my  help  to  rescue  her?" 

"He  may  kill  me.  It's  not  likely  he'll  kill  both  of 
us." 

"What's  his  motive?"  Hindwood  spoke  more 
slowly.  All  his  suspicion  was  emphasized  in  his 
words.  "What's  his  motive  for  kidnaping  this 
woman  who  resembles " 

"How  can  I  tell?"  The  Captain  was  desperate. 
"We  talk  and  talk  while  time  passes.  I  suppose  his 
interest  is  the  same  in  this  woman  as  in  all  women. 
Perhaps  he  was  the  discarded  lover  of  that  other 
woman,  and,  like  myself,  has  noticed  the  resem 
blance." 

Hindwood  picked  up  his  hat.     "I'm  coming." 

"Are  you  armed?" 

"Not  in  your  sense.  I  shall  fight  with  a  different 
sort  of  weapon." 


n 


At  the  door  a  closed  vehicle  was  standing.  To 
Hindwood  it  seemed  the  one  that  had  flashed  by  him 
on  the  previous  evening.  He  glanced  between  the 
wheels ;  there  was  no  Russian  wolf-hound.  Even  be 
fore  he  was  seated,  the  lash  had  been  laid  across  the 
horses'  backs.  The  next  moment  they  were  gallop 
ing  down  the  gloomy  street.  Leaning  from  the  win 
dow,  the  Captain  was  urging  the  coachman  to  drive 
faster. 


318  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

When  the  pace  had  settled  to  a  rapid  trot,  Hind- 
wood  broke  the  silence. 

"You're  an  Hungarian  officer;  Prince  Rogovich 
is  a  Polish  statesman.  You  tell  me  you're  his  secre 
tary.  What's  a  Polish  statesman  doing  in  the  Royal 
Palace,  directing  Hungary's  affairs?" 

"It  isn't  Hungary's  affairs  that  he's  directing; 
it's  the  campaign  against  Democracy.  The  present 
crisis  has  made  Budapest  the  jumping-off  point  for 
the  offensive  which  the  Monarchists  have  been  wait 
ing  to  launch.  The  Monarchists  are  men  of  every 
country,  who  have  sunk  their  nationalities  and  made 
a  common  cause." 

"And  you — are  you  a  Monarchist?" 

His  reply  came  muffled.  "I  was.  To-night  I'm  a 
traitor." 

The  horses,  thrown  sharply  back  on  their 
haunches,  swerved  toward  the  pavement;  the  car 
riage  jerked  to  a  halt.  Almost  brushing  the  wheels 
in  the  narrow  street,  a  column  of  soldiers  shuffled 
past.  Their  rifles  were  slung  at  all  angles.  Their 
shoulders  were  bowed  beneath  their  heavy  packs. 
They  crawled  weakly,  more  like  stragglers  retreat 
ing  than  storm-troops  advancing.  Even  in  the  dark 
ness  their  bones  showed  pointed  and  their  faces  lean 
with  famine. 

"Reservists,"  the  Captain  explained  shortly. 
"Mobilization  has  begun." 

Hindwood  strained  through  the  gloom,  touching 
his  arm  excitedly.  "Starving  men  being  sent  to  kill 
men  who  are  more  starving.  You've  spoken  of  a 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  319 

woman  you  adored — a  woman  who  was  shot  for 
hideous  treacheries.  Her  treacheries  were  committed 
to  prevent  just  such  crimes  as  that.  Don't  interrupt 
me — not  yet.  You've  expected  me  to  believe  an  im 
possible  story :  that  a  man  can  return  from  the  dead. 
If  I  were  to  tell  you  an  equally  improbable  story, 
what  difference  would  it  make  to  your  love?  If  I 
were  to  tell  you  that  the  resemblance  was  not  mis 
taken  and  that  the  woman  at  the  Palace  is  the  same 
as  she  who  was  reported  executed  in  the  woods  of 
Vincennes  ?" 

The  last  of  the  column  had  slouched  into  the 
blackness.  The  horses  leapt  forward  impatiently. 

The  question  was  repeated.     "What  difference?" 

The  Captain's  voice  burst  from  him.  "God  for 
give  me — none." 

Neither  of  them  dared  to  trust  the  other.  Their 
respite  was  growing  shorter.  They  had  crossed  the 
bridge  above  the  Danube.  In  a  moment  the  ascent 
to  the  Palace  would  commence.  It  was  Hindwood 
who  decided  on  boldness.  If  he  were  walking  into  an 
ambush,  he  could  not  make  matters  worse. 

He  said,  "Weapons  will  be  useless.  Only  to  kill 
the  Prince  won't  save  her.  If  we  manage  to  escape 
from  the  Palace,  the  streets  are  full  of  anned  men. 
We  should  only  rescue  her  to  die  with  her.  I  have 
a  plan.  Do  you  know  the  barracks  of  the  Russian 
refugees?  If  I  were  to  write  a  note,  would  you 
guarantee  to  have  it  delivered?" 

By  the  light  of  matches  held  by  thf  Captain,  he 
scrawled  rapidly.  The  last  sentence  read,  "If  you 


320  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

have  not  heard  from  me  again  by  2  A.  M.,  consider 
that  the  worst  has  happened  and  carry  out  these 
instructions."  He  addressed  the  note  to,  "The 
Husband  of  Anna." 

"Have  it  entrusted  to  a  man  who  cannot  read 
English."  The  Captain  extinguished  the  final  match. 

"I  shall  send  it  by  the  driver  of  this  carriage." 


Ill 


They  had  alighted  some  distance  short  of  the 
gateway  where  the  sentries  would  be  on  guard.  The 
message  for  Varensky  had  been  handed  over.  The 
horses  had  been  wheeled  about;  save  for  their  trot 
ting  growing  fainter  down  the  slope,  the  night  was 
without  a  sound.  The  moon  shone  fitfully.  Stars 
were  obscured.  The  city  out  of  which  they  had 
climbed  lay  pulseless  in  an  unillumined  pit  of 
blackness.  The  Palace,  piled  high  above  them, 
loomed  sepulchral. 

The  Captain  groped  his  way  beneath  the  wall  of 
the  ramparts,  searching  for  something  which  at  last 
he  found.  It  pushed  inwards  at  his  touch.  The 
door  closed  behind  them. 

In  the  intenser  darkness  Hindwood  stretched 
out  his  hands.  They  encountered  the  rough  surface 
of  clammy  masonry.  He  was  in  some  sort  of  a 
tunnel.  The  floor  sloped  gradually  upwards.  The 
atmosphere  smelt  dank.  He  spoke.  Getting  no 
answer,  he  held  his  breath.  Going  away  from  him 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  321 

he  heard  the  stealthy  hurrying  of  the  Captain's 
footfall.  Rather  than  be  left,  perhaps  to  be  for 
gotten,  he  started  forward  at  a  blundering  run.  He 
came  to  steps.  He  was  prepared  to  be  attacked.  It 
might  be  here  that  he  would  be  hurled  back.  He 
climbed  them  almost  on  all  fours,  steadying  him 
self  with  his  hands.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
been  ascending  for  hours,  when  he  heard  footsteps 
returning.  A  match  was  struck ;  he  saw  the  Captain 
staring  down  at  him. 

"We're  in  time."        -\ 

The  match  went  out. 

"Catch  hold  of  me.     Tread  softly." 

They  passed  through  another  door.  The  air  was 
growing  warmer.  It  was  evident  that  they  were 
traversing  a  secret  passage  which  wound  within 
the  Palace  walls.  At  a  turn  they  heard  a  muttering 
of  voices.  The  Captain  whispered,  "Do  nothing 
till  I  give  the  word." 

They  approached  more  cautiously  to  where  a 
needle  of  light  stabbed  the  darkness.  Hindwood 
caught  the  fragrance  of  tobacco  smoke.  As  he 
stooped  to  the  spy-hole,  a  purring  voice  commenced 
speaking  almost  at  his  elbow,  "My  dear  lady,  you're 
mine — a  fact  which  you  don't  seem  to  realize.  I  have 
only  to  press  this  button,  which  summons  my  at 
tendants;  I  can  snuff  out  your  life  with  as  little 
effort  as  I  flick  this  ash." 

He  found  himself  peering  into  a  room,  furnished 
with  oriental  lavishness.  He  had  a  confused  glimpse 
of  beaten  brass-work,  shaded  lamps,  low  tables, 


822  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

cushions  piled  about  in  place  of  chairs.  It  was 
a  blaze  of  color.  At  the  far  end  was  a  gilded  throne 
and  bound  to  it  was  Santa.  Her  hands  were  tightly 
corded.  Her  ankles  were  lashed  so  that  she  could  not 
stir.  Her  face  was  pale  as  ivory.  Only  her  eyes 
seemed  alive;  they  flashed  indomitably.  Pacing  up 
and  down,  never  shifting  his  gaze  from  hers,  was 
the  black-bearded  man  who  had  disappeared  from 
the  Ryndam. 

She  spoke  defiantly.  "Summon  your  attendants. 
Do  you  think  I  fear  death?'* 

"I  know  you  don't,  dear  lady.  That's  why  I've 
invented  a  more  subtle  revenge.  If  I  were  an  ordi 
nary  man,  I  should  detest  the  very  sight  of  you; 
whereas,  so  magnanimous  am  I,  that  your  attempt 
to  murder  me  has  added  a  novel  piquancy  to  your 
fascination.  I  have  been  too  much  loved — too 
spontaneously,  too  adoringly.  You  afford  me  a 
contrast.  I  intend  to  keep  you  caged  like  a  lioness. 
The  hatred  in  your  eyes  will  spur  my  affection.  Al 
ways,  even  when  I  caress  you,  I  shall  have  to  be  on 
my  guard.  Our  courtship  will  be  a  perpetual  ad 
venture.  The  goal  of  desire  will  be  forever  out  of 
grasp,  yet  forever  within  handstretch." 

He  stroked  his  black  beard  thoughtfully.  "With 
you  I  shall  never  know  satiety.  This  continual  hop 
ing  will  keep  me  young.  You,  my  dear,  will  be  my 
secret  source  of  romance.  Every  day  I  shall  take 
you  down,  as  one  takes  down  a  volume,  and  turn 
your  latest  pages  which  I  alone  may  scan." 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  323 

She  strained  at  her  bonds.  "It  will  be  no  ro 
mance." 

He  smiled  with  terrifying  quietness. 

"Your  value  to  me,"  he  continued  in  his  purring 
voice,  "is  that  you've  cost  me  so  much.  Ugh ! 
Every  time  I  look  at  you  I  remember  how  it  felt 
when  I  sank  and  sank.  When  I  rose  above  the 
waves,  I  saw  your  lights,  streaking  like  a  golden 
snake  into  the  blackness.  I  struck  out  after  you 
hopelessly.  I  shouted.  Then  I  found  myself  alone, 
with  no  one  to  take  pity  on  me  and  not  one  chance 
in  a  million  of  being  rescued.  The  millionth  chance 
arrived."  He  stooped  at  her  feet,  kissing  her  tor 
tured  hands.  "And  here  we  are  met,  under  these 
auspicious  circumstances,  carrying  on  this  pleasant 
conversation.  What  were  you  doing  while  I  was 
drowning?  Making  love  beneath  the  stars  to  your 
infatuated  American — leaning  on  his  arm,  perhaps, 
warmly  wrapped  in  your  sables  ?  And  I  was  so  cold ! 
Did  you  give  me  a  thought,  I  wonder?" 

She  stared  past  him  like  a  woman  frozen.  "Let 
me  know  the  worst." 

Tapping  her  cheek  with  pretended  kindness,  he 
resumed  his  pacing. 

"Why  the  worst?  Is  that  flattering,  when  I've 
spoken  of  our  courtship?  We're  well  matched  in 
wickedness,  if  in  nothing  else.  You're  wanted  for 
the  scaffold,  whereas  I  should  have  been  hung  long 
ago  if  I'd  received  my  deserts.  I'd  be  interested  to 
know  what  you'd  do,  if  you  were  in  my  place.  How 
much  mercy  would  you  show  me?  You  must  own 


THE  VANISHING  POINT 

that  merely  to  kill  a  person  who  has  tried  to  drown 
you  is  too  brief  a  punishment.  The  punishment 
I've  planned  for  you  is  one  that'll  make  you  pray 
every  hour  for  extinction.  For  a  woman  who  has 
dispensed  annihilation  so  lavishly  I  can  think  of 
nothing  more  just  than  that,  when  her  own  life  has 
become  intolerable,  she  should  be  refused  the  boon 
of  death." 

She  spoke  humbly.  "There's  nothing  too  bad  that 
you  can  do  to  me.  But  I'm  not  the  woman  who  tried 
to  murder  you.  I'm  changed.  I've  learnt  some 
thing.  I  learnt  it  from  a  man.'* 

He  bowed  towards  her  mockingly.  "Your  Ameri 
can?" 

"My  American,  who  can  never  be  mine.  I've 
learnt  that  even  when  we  don't  acknowledge  Him, 
there's  a  God  in  the  world  who  acts  through  us.  It 
was  He  who  saved  me  from  the  woods  of  Vincennes. 
It  was  He  who  prevented  you  from  drowning.  He 
had  some  purpose — a  divine  moment  for  which  He 
waited.  That  purpose  has  yet  to  be  accomplished. 
Who  are  you  or  I ?" 

"I  can  tell  you  who  you  are,"  he  snapped:  "a 
dancing-woman,  with  a  price  upon  your  head.  As  for 
myself,"  his  pale  face  flooded  with  a  strangely 
Satanic  beauty,  "it  would  puzzle  the  wisest  man  to 
say  who  I  am.  To-night  I  am  Prince  Rogovich ;  to 
morrow  I  may  be  Emperor.  My  puppets  are  mus 
tering.  By  dawn  they'll  be  marching.  They're 
hungry ;  victory  to  them  means  bread." 

"But  if  one  were  to  feed  them — ?" 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  325 

"Your  American  again !"  He  gazed  down  on  her, 
showing  his  white  teeth  and  laughing.  "What  faith 
you  have  in  the  man!  If  your  American  is  God's 
unaccomplished  purpose,  then  God  and  all  His 
angels  are  thwarted.  The  messenger  I  have  sent 
to  execute  him  will  not  fail;  he  has  good  reason  to 
hate  him.  He's  his  rival  for  your  affections.  You 
were  the  bribe  I  offered  him.  You  ma}7  rest  assured 
the  Captain's  work  will  be  done  well.  His  turn 
comes  next." 

Jerking  back  her  head,  he  stooped  lower,  drinking 
in  her  despair.  "Millionth  chances  come  once,  if 
then.  Yours  came  at  Vincennes.  Cease  hoping. 
Your  American  is " 

"It's  a  lie." 

Hindwood  felt  himself  flung  violently  back.  The 
wall  turned  inwards.  There  was  a  report — then 
silence. 


IV 


The  Prince  had  pitched  forward  with  his  head  in 
Santa's  lap.  His  hands  were  clawing  at  her  gown. 
As  he  struggled,  he  stiffened  and  slid  back,  till  he 
lay  across  her  feet,  grinning  up  at  her.  The  Captain, 
his  revolver  still  smoking  in  his  hand,  threw  himself 
to  his  knees,  feeling  for  his  victim's  heart.  He  spoke 
dully. 

"The  dream  of  Monarchy  is  ended." 

The  quietness  was  broken  by  a  distant  clamor. 
Momentarily  it  gathered  volume  and  drew  nearer. 


326  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

Throughout  the  Palace,  which  had  seemed  so  wrapt 
in  sleep,  feet  were  running.  From  the  Palace-yard 
rose  the  clatter  of  arms  and  the  impatience  of  orders 
being  shouted.  On  the  door  of  the  chamber  an  im 
portunate  tapping  had  commenced. 

Hindwood  looked  up  in  the  midst  of  freeing  Santa. 
"They'll  beat  in  the  panels.  Find  out  what  they 
want." 

The  Captain  dragged  himself  to  the  door  which 
he  did  not  dare  to  open.  A  rapid  exchange  of  Hun 
garian  followed.  As  Santa  tottered  to  her  feet  with 
the  last  cord  severed,  the  Captain  tiptoed  back. 

"Escape  by  the  passage.  The  shot  was  heard. 
They  insist  on  seeing  Prince  Rogovich." 

"To  be  butchered  in  the  streets !  I  guess  not." 
Hindwood  shook  his  head.  "Escape  does  not  lie  in 
that  direction.  They  shall  see  him.  In  ten  minutes. 
At  the  window.  Tell  them." 

The  Captain  stood  aghast,  pointing  down  at  the 
glazing  eyes  of  the  man  he  had  murdered.  "They 
can't." 

"I  say  they  can." 

The  answer  was  delivered.  The  tapping  ceased 
abruptly. 

"Hang  on  to  your  nerves."  Hindwood  crouched 
above  the  body,  dragging  it  into  a  sitting  posture. 
"We've  exactly  ten  minutes  to  make  it  look  like  a 
man  who  hopes  to  become  an  emperor.  The  peace  of 
the  world  may  depend  on  it."  He  turned  to  the 
Captain.  "You  who  were  his  bodyguard,  how  would 
he  have  dressed  if  his  ambition  had  been  granted?" 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  327 

Too  pale  for  speech,  the  Captain  moved  towards 
a  chest;  with  trembling  hands  he  drew  forth  a 
purple  robe,  ermine-lined  and  gold-woven  with 
mythical  beasts  of  heraldry.  Dipping  deeper,  he  laid 
beside  it  a  scepter  and  an  iron  crown  of  twisted 
laurels. 

Hindwood  smiled  grimly.  "So  the  scene  had 
been  rehearsed!  How  do  these  things  go?  You 
must  help  me  put  them  on  him.'* 

When  the  Prince  had  been  arrayed,  "Now  the 
throne,"  he  ordered.  "It'll  take  the  three  of  us  to 
move  it." 

The  gilded  throne  had  been  hauled  from  its  alcove, 
so  as  to  face  the  window.  The  dead  man,  in  the 
tinsel  of  his  dreams,  had  been  seated  on  it.  He  was 
bound,  to  prevent  him  from  lolling — bound  with  the 
cords  with  which  he  himself  had  secured  Santa.  His 
gold-encrusted  robe  was  spread  about  him.  Across 
his  knees,  with  his  right  hand  resting  on  it,  was  the 
scepter.  On  his  head  was  the  iron  crown  of  laurels. 

"The  lamps !  Place  them  at  his  feet.  Switch  on 
all  the  lights,  then  vanish." 

The  curtains  were  flung  back.  A  dazzling  shaft 
pierced  the  outer  darkness.  There  was  a  breathless 
silence  as  of  worship;  a  superstitious  rustling;  a 
deafening  acclamation,  which  echoed  and  roared 
about  the  Palace-yard. 

It  continued  unabated  for  a  full  five  minutes.  It 
sagged  and  sank.  Again  it  mounted.  Then  !it 
paused  expectant.  It  was  for  all  the  world  like  a 
triumph  at  the  opera,  when  a  singer  only  bows  and 


328  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

an  encore  is  demanded.  It  recommenced.  This 
time  there  was  a  note  of  anger. 

The  dead  man  grinned  down  at  the  applauding 
mob.  He  gave  no  sign  to  these  men,  prepared  to 
die  for  him.  Slowly  it  seemed  to  dawn  on  them 
that  he  did  not  care — that  he  had  never  cared  for 
their  wounds  and  hunger;  that  for  men  of  his  sort 
they  were  only  beasts ;  that  it  made  no  difference 
whether  they  were  conquered  or  victorious ;  he  would 
sit  there  as  all  the  kings  and  emperors  before  him, 
secure  and  immobile,  sneering  at  their  sacrifices  and 
coining  their  sufferings  into  profit. 

They  found  contempt  in  his  vacant  stare;  cruelty 
in  his  marble  hands  that  clutched  the  scepter.  Ges 
ticulating  and  cursing,  they  hurled  reproaches  at 
him.  They  trampled  the  officers  who  tried  to  quell 
them.  Shots  were  exchanged.  Pandemonium  was 
commencing. 

Hindwood  consulted  his  watch.  It  lacked  but  a 
few  minutes  till  two  o'clock.  If  he  could  hold  the 
garrison  in  confusion,  Varensky  would  have  time  to 
seize  his  chance. 

He  turned  to  the  Captain  behind  the  curtain  where 
they  watched.  "What  is  it  they  want?'* 

"It  was  some  acknowledgment  at  first;  then 
a  speech;  now  it's  bread.  Can't  you  hear  them, 
'Bread!  Bread!  Or  we  do  not  march." 

At  that  moment  the  hammering  on  the  outer  door 
re-started.  Hindiwood  seized  the  Captain's  arm. 
"You  must  speak  to  them ;  they  wouldn't  understand 


was  like  a  triumph  at  the  opera. 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  329 

me.  You're  in  uniform.  There's  Santa.  If  you 
don't  all  is  lost." 

"What  shall  I  tell  them?" 

"Anything.  Speak  to  them  as  the  mouthpiece  of 
Prince  Rogovich.  Say  there's  food  in  the  freight- 
yards — two  train-loads  of  it — and  more  arriving; 
that  soon  the  warehouses  of  Budapest  will  be  bulg- 
ing." 

The  Captain  stepped  forward,  an  heroic  figure. 
Just  as  he  appeared  in  the  oblong  of  the  window — 
whether  it  was  the  sight  of  his  uniform  that  provoked 
the  storm  was  not  certain — a  volley  of  bullets  shat 
tered  the  glass.  He  clapped  his  hand  to  his  forehead. 
There  was  a  second  volley.  The  room  was  plunged 
in  darkness.  Hindwood  darted  forward.  The 
pounding  on  the  outer-door  grew  frantic.  In  the 
Palace-yard  there  was  the  silence  of  horror. 

Released  by  the  knife  of  flying  lead,  the  body  of 
the  Prince  had  doubled  forward,  as  though  to  peer 
down  at  the  man  who  had  betrayed  him.  The 
Captain  was  beyond  all  help. 

As  Hindwood  leapt  back  in  search  of  Santa,  the 
door  went  down  with  a  crash.  In  a  second  the  dark 
ness  was  filled  to  overflowing — halberdiers,  Palace 
servants,  wild-eyed  officials.  In  the  confusion  he 
caught  her  hand  and  escaped  unnoticed  through  the 
pressing  throng.  As  they  hurried  through  salons 
hung  with  priceless  treasures,  looting  had  started. 
The  first  of  the  mob  were  ruthlessly  at  work.  At 
the  foot  of  the  marble  staircase  he  glanced  at  his 
watch.  "It's  exactly  two  o'clock,"  he  murmured. 


330  THE  VANISHING  POINT 


They  had  passed  beneath  the  gateway  where  sen 
tries  should  have  challenged.  Their  posts  were  de 
serted.  As  they  struck  the  road,  descending  beneath 
the  ramparts,  Santa  questioned,  "Why  did  you  say, 
'It's  exactly  two  o'clock'  ?" 

"Because  of  a  note  I  sent  Varensky."  He  changed 
the  subject.  "How  were  you  captured?" 

She  hesitated.  "It  was  after  we'd  quarreled.  I 
was  afraid  I'd  lost  you.  A  messenger  arrived,  say 
ing  you  were  with  the  Governor  and  wanted  me.  It 
was  a  lie;  the  person  who  wanted  me  was  Prince 
Rogovich." 

"Then  Lajos  betrayed  you?" 

"No.  He  knew  nothing  of  what  happened  on 
the  Ryndam.  He  was  infatuated  with  me  and  must 
have  talked."  She  clutched  his  arm.  "You're  put 
ting  me  off.  You  said  so  strangely,  'It's  exactly  two 
o'clock.'  What  was  in  your  note  to  Varensky?" 

For  answer  he  halted  and  pointed. 

Far  below  in  the  gulf  of  blackness,  where  a  mo 
ment  ago  there  had  seemed  to  be  nothing,  life  had 
begun  to  quicken.  In  the  flash  of  multitudinous 
street-lamps,  a  city  was  being  born.  It  kindled  in 
vivid  strokes,  like  veins  of  fire  etched  on  the  pave 
ment  of  the  night.  As  though  an  artist  were  com 
pleting  his  design,  ten  thousand  windows  opened 
their  pin-point  eyes,  filling  in  blank  spaces  with 
rapid  specks  of  gold.  Seen  from  such  a  height,  the 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  331 

effect  was  in  miniature.  The  very  sounds  which  rose 
up  were  little.  At  first  they  were  no  more  than  a 
sustained  humming,  as  when  a  hive  is  about  to 
swarm.  They  swelled  to  a  melodious  muttering. 
Then,  with  a  rush  of  ecstasy,  the  storm  of  joy  broke; 
the  air  pulsated  with  the  maddening  clash  of  chimes. 

She  was  clinging  to  him.  "What  is  it?  Is  it  the 
thing  for  which  we've  hoped  ?" 

He  glanced  back  across  his  shoulder  at  the  huge 
pile,  towering  on  the  rock  above  him.  Those  madmen 
up  there,  destroying  and  pillaging,  had  they  time 
to  hear  it?  The  Palace  was  glowing  like  a  furnace. 
As  he  watched,  a  column  of  flame  shot  tall  towards 
the  sky. 

Seizing  her  hand,  he  broke  into  a  run,  making  all 
the  haste  he  could  down  the  steep  decline.  Behind 
them  the  flames  crept  like  serpents,  licking  the  clouds 
and  mounting  higher.  The  heat  was  like  the  breath 
of  a  pursuer.  Night  had  become  vivid  as  day. 
There  was  no  concealment.  The  crest  of  the  rain- 
parts  was  a  gigantic  torch.  The  Danube  far  below 
was  stained  red  as  wine.  Their  very  shadows  were 
lurid.  And  still  the  bells  across  the  river  pealed 
out  their  joy. 

There  was  a  galloping.  Riderless  horses,  broken 
loose  from  the  stables,  thundered  by.  Then  an  auto 
mobile,  driven  by  a  man  with  a  scared  and  wounded 
face.  Others  followed.  The  crowd  on  foot,  fleeing 
from  its  handiwork,  was  not  far  behind.  As  an 
empty  car,  with  an  officer  at  the  wheel,  slowed  down 
at  a  hairpin  bend,  Santa  and  he  leapt  aboard. 


332  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

The  danger  was  outdistanced.  They  had  crossed 
the  Danube.  They  were  scarcely  likely  now  to  be 
implicated  in  what  had  happened  to  Prince  Rogo- 
vich.  But  they  were  still  at  the  mercy  of  their 
reckless  driver.  In  his  panic  he  had  not  once  looked 
around ;  he  was  unaware  that  he  carried  passengers. 
Hindwood  knew  very  clearly  where  he  wanted  to  go ; 
it  was  probably  the  last  place  to  which  he  would  be 
taken.  The  streets  of  Pest  near  the  river  were 
solitary,  but  somewhere  the  mob  was  gathering.  It 
might  prove  awkward  to  be  found  in  the  company 
of  a  uniformed  Monarchist  who  was  escaping. 

Having  formulated  his  plan,  he  whispered  it  to 
Santa.  "While  I  tackle  him,  you  grasp  the  wheel." 

Leaning  forward,  he  flung  his  arm  about  the 
man's  neck,  jerking  him  backwards.  The  car  swerved 
and  mounted  the  pavement.  Santa  turned  it  into  the 
road  again.  Taken  by  surprise,  the  man  offered 
small  resistance;  the  struggle  was  short.  Hindwood 
toppled  him  out,  climbed  into  the  front  seat  and 
took  his  place. 

"The  station.  Where  is  it?"  he  asked  breathlessly. 

She  glanced  at  him  with  a  revival  of  her  old 
suspicion.  "We're  not  leaving.  Why  the  station?" 

He  could  have  laughed.  "Still  the  old,  distrustful 
Santa  !  Little  fool — the  food-trains." 

The  first  streets  which  they  traversed  were  de 
serted;  yet  lamps  were  lighted  and  the  air  was 
clamorous  with  belfry-music.  As  they  drew  further 
into  the  city,  they  shot  past  groups  and  isolated 
individuals,  crawling  in  the  same  direction.  For 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  333 

the  most  part  they  were  the  kind  of  persons  Santa 
had  offered  to  show  him  that  morning — people  in 
rags  or  entirely  stark,  who  hobbled  from  weakness 
or  dragged  themselves  on  all  fours  like  dogs.  It  was 
as  though  the  dead  were  rising  from  their  graves  to 
follow  the  Pied  Piper  of  the  Resurrection. 

They  came  to  a  square,  where  soldiers  had  been 
concentrated.  Their  packs  and  rifles  littered  the 
open  space;  the  soldiers  themselves  had  vanished. 

The  traffic  grew  dense.  It  was  all  on  foot.  Hind- 
wood  turned  to  Santa,  "We  shall  make  better  time  if 
we  leave  the  car." 

As  they  mingled  with  the  crowd,  he  had  a  night 
mare  sensation  of  unreality.  He  had  never  rubbed 
shoulders  with  so  many  human  beings  so  nearly 
naked.  They  themselves  seemed  to  regard  their 
conditions  as  normal.  It  was  he  who  was  odd.  Their 
legs  were  mere  poles ;  their  arms  laths.  Their  heads 
were  misshapen  like  deflated  footballs.  With  pant 
ing  persistence  they  padded  forward,  too  frail  to  be 
anything  but  orderly.  The  air  was  full  of  an  earthy 
fragrance.  Their  bodies  were  clammy  to  the  touch. 
He  could  push  them  aside  like  shadows.  The  hair 
was  brittle  as  withered  moss. 

It  was  the  fashionable  quarter  of  Budapest. 
Great  arc-lights  shone  down  on  this  flowing  river  of 
gray  flesh.  Behind  plate-glass  windows  luxuries  were 
displayed  for  the  temptation  of  the  bargain-snatch 
ing  foreigner — feathers  and  furs,  jewels  and  laces. 
Past  them,  with  eyes  enfevered  by  starvation,  stole 
the  noiseless  populace.  There  was  a  woman  whose 


334  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

sole  clothing  was  a  rag  about  her  neck ;  she  continued 
to  live  in  Hindwood's  imagination  long  after  the 
sight  of  her  was  gone.  And  still,  with  thunderous 
merriment,  the  bells  above  the  city  pealed  on. 

At  a  turn  they  came  to  the  station.  Further  prog 
ress  was  blocked.  Exerting  his  strength  against 
the  weakness  of  the  mob,  Hindwood  edged  his  way 
forward.  When  he  could  go  no  farther,  he  swung 
round  on  Santa.  "Tell  them  that  I  own  the  food- 
trains  and  that  I'm  going  to  get  them  bread." 

She  had  no  sooner  uttered  her  translation  than  a 
lane  was  cleared.  As  he  passed,  he  was  aware  that 
parched  lips  stooped  to  kiss  his  hands,  his  garments, 
the  very  ground  that  he  trod.  He  shuddered.  The 
indecent  self-abasement  of  such  necessity  inflamed 
his  indignation.  Ahead  a  cordon  was  drawn  across 
the  road.  It  was  composed  of  Russian  refugees. 
He  recognized  them  by  their  baggy  blouses  and  by 
the  short-haired  women  of  the  Battalions  of  Death. 
From  the  tail  of  a  wagon  an  orator  was  speechifying. 
His  head  was  peaked  like  a  dunce's  cap.  Beside  him 
stood  a  woman,  white  as  a  lily  with  hair  the  color  of 
raw  gold. 

Hindwood  caught  Santa's  arm.  "For  heaven's 
sake,  what's  he  saying?" 

"What  he  always  says  on  such  occasions.  He's 
preaching  his  gospel  of  non-resistance  and  promising 
to  die  for  them." 

"Who  cares  for  whom  he  dies,  when  bellies  are 
empty  and  bodies  are  naked?  Tell  them  I'll  clothe 
them  and  give  them  bread." 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  335 

As  she  translated  what  he  had  said,  a  cry  went  up 
which  drowned  Varensky.  He  found  himself  in  the 
open  space,  clambering  up  to  the  wagon  and  drag 
ging  Santa  up  beside  him.  There  was  a  deep  silence. 

"Tell  them,"  he  commanded,  "that  starvation  is 
ended.  I'll  feed  them  on  one  condition:  that  they 
refuse  to  fight.  Tell  them  I'll  drive  the  Russian 
menace  back  without  a  single  shot  being  fired.  Tell 
them  that  I  promise,  on  my  honor  as  an  American, 
to  feed  them  all.  Though  food-trains  are  exhausted 
to-night,  more  will  arrive  to-morrow.  More  and 
more." 

He  paused,  blinded  with  emotion  at  sight  of  the 
forest  of  thin  hands  strained  up  to  him.  Shooting 
out  his  fist  tremendously,  he  threatened.  "And  tell 
them  that  I  won't  feed  a  jack  one  of  them,  if  there's 
another  man,  woman  or  child  slaughtered,  or  a  hint 
of  rioting." 


VI 


He  had  kept  his  word;  as  far  as  Hungary  was 
concerned,  every  living  soul  had  been  nourished.  For 
seven  days  and  nights,  sleeping  only  at  odd  intervals, 
he  had  sat  in  the  barracks  of  the  Russian  refugees 
with  the  map  of  Europe  staring  down  on  him  from 
the  wall.  Wherever  a  food-train  had  been  des 
patched,  the  place  had  been  marked  by  a  little  red 
flag.  He  had  had  a  wireless-apparatus  installed; 
from  that  bare  room,  heavy  with  mildew,  he  had  sent 
out  his  S.  O.  S.  calls  to  humanity.  He  had  begged, 


336  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

threatened,  argued,  commanded  until  at  last  he  knew 
that  he  had  won  his  cause.  What  he  did  not  know 
was  that  his  own  example  had  proved  more  convincing 
than  many  words.  The  simple  drama  of  his  personal 
conversion — that  he  should  be  giving  what  he  had 
come  to  sell — had  stirred  men's  consciences.  It  had 
given  him  the  right  to  talk.  Where  once  troops 
would  have  been  hurried,  food  was  being  pushed  for 
ward.  It  was  an  experiment  alarmingly  novel;  but 
his  phrase  caught  on,  "The  Barricade  of  Bread.'* 
It  had  been  flashed  across  five  continents.  Wherever 
the  printed  word  had  power,  it  had  kindled  men's 
imaginations.  By  a  world  war-wrecked,  confronted 
by  yet  another  war,  it  had  been  hailed  as  the  strat 
egy  that  would  end  all  wars. 

Loaf  by  loaf,  sack  by  sack  the  barricade  was  ris 
ing.  Those  little  red  flags,  pinned  on  the  map, 
marked  its  progress.  It  was  deepening  and  spread 
ing  in  a  flanking  movement,  just  as  formerly  army 
corps  had  massed  for  offensives.  Soon  the  barricade 
would  be  complete;  it  would  stretch  in  an  unbroken 
line  from  the  Dardanelles  to  the  Baltic.  There  would 
be  fighting,  probably  to  the  east  of  Poland,  where 
the  Monarchists  were  marching  in  a  forlorn  attempt 
to  defeat  the  famished  hordes.  That  could  not  be 
prevented.  But  by  the  time  the  outcasts  struck  his 
main  defense,  he  would  be  in  a  position  to  halt  them. 

It  was  only  now,  when  the  situation  was  in  hand, 
that  he  had  leisure  to  realize  what  he  had  been 
doing.  He  was  filled  with  depression  in  his  hour  of 
triumph.  It  was  long  past  midnight.  He  felt  gray 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  337 

and  spent.  The  barracks  were  as  quiet  as  a  morgue. 
He  wondered  why;  they  had  been  so  crowded  with 
derelicts  of  valiant  armies,  men  and  girls,  who,  hav 
ing  failed  to  save  Russia  with  the  rifle,  had  been  pre 
paring  to  rescue  her  with  knowledge.  Then  he  re 
called.  He  had  sent  them  all  away.  They  had 
been  the  new  kind  of  soldier,  by  whose  sacrifice  his 
ideal  had  conquered.  He  saw  again  their  uplifted 
faces,  as  he  had  summoned  them  one  by  one  and  or 
dered  them  on  their  perilous  journeys.  Wherever 
a  red  flag  was  pinned  on  the  map,  one  of  those  dere 
licts  was  in  command.  The  "Little  Grandmother," 
she  had  been  the  last.  Beside  himself  and  his  wire 
less  operators,  there  could  be  no  one  left  except 
Varensky,  Santa  and  Anna. 

He  glanced  at  the  window.  It  was  a  square  of  jet. 
During  the  early  days  and  nights  it  had  framed  a 
heart  of  fire,  where  the  Palace  had  smouldered  on 
the  heights  of  Buda.  Like  a  subsided  volcano,  the 
Palace  had  burned  itself  out.  It  was  as  though  the 
fury  of  his  life  were  ended.  He  bowed  his  head  in 
his  arms,  striving  to  reconjure  what  had  happened. 

Flitting  about  the  room,  with  his  strangely  cat 
like  tread,  Varensky  had  been  forever  entering  and 
exiting.  He  had  been  his  second  self,  silent  and 
agile,  anticipating  his  plans  without  a  word  spoken. 
It  was  Varensky  who  had  marshaled  his  exiled  com 
patriots  and  placed  their  services  at  his  disposal. 
It  was  Varensky  who  had  warned  him  of  the  strate 
gic  points  where  the  barricade  must  be  strength 
ened.  It  had  been  always  Varensky  to  whom  he  had 


338  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

turned  for  advice  and  courage  when  things  were 
darkest.  Without  Varensky  he  could  have  ac 
complished  nothing.  And  yet  it  was  Varensky  whom 
he  had  dethroned.  This  should  have  been  his  mo 
ment.  He  had  shouted  him  down,  snatched  control 
from  him  and  earned  the  credit.  The  self-effacement 
of  one  whom  he  had  despised  as  an  egoist  made  him 
humble.  In  a  rush  of  tenderness  he  discovered  that 
he  loved  him.  The  peaked  head  was  forgotten,  and 
the  face  scared  white  as  if  it  had  seen  a  ghost.  The 
timidity  of  his  appearance  no  longer  counted;  the 
thing  that  mattered  was  the  spirit,  resolute  and  shin 
ing  as  a  sword,  that  hid  within  the  scabbard  of  the 
grotesque  body. 

And  now  that  he  remembered,  there  had  been  grief 
in  his  green  eyes — the  grief  of  a  man  who  had  been 
cheated.  Once  again  Varensky  had  drawn  him  near 
to  Calvary;  the  chance  to  die  had  been  stolen  from 
him. 

And  Anna — he  could  not  guess  how  she  felt  or 
what  she  thought.  In  all  those  seven  days  and 
nights  it  seemed  as  though  she  had  never  looked  at 
him.  She  had  moved  about  him  like  a  nun,  minister 
ing  to  his  wants  with  her  gaze  averted.  Vaguely  he 
was  aware  that  to  him  she  was  not  what  she  appeared 
to  others.  The  old  legend  had  been  revived;  again, 
as  in  St.  Petersburg  after  the  fall  of  Czardom, 
wherever  she  passed  people  knelt.  To  him  she  was 
no  saint;  his  desire  was  too  human. 

Watching  the  three  of  them  with  sphinxlike  wis 
dom,  there  had  been  Santa,  her  womanhood  clamor- 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  339 

cms  and  ignored.  What  had  she  made  of  it?  Had 
she  found  material  for  humor  in  their  temporary 
heroism  ? 

And  so  he  came  back  to  his  first  question — what 
had  he  been  doing?  In  constructing  the  barricade 
of  bread,  he  had  been  preventing  Varensky  from 
dying;  in  preventing  Varensky  from  dying,  he  had 
been  raising  a  barricade  between  himself  and  Anna. 
Having  bankrupted  his  pocket,  he  had  bankrupted 
his  heart.  In  spite  of  warnings,  he  had  gone  in 
search  of  the  vanishing  point,  where  the  parallel 
rails  of  possibility  and  desire  seem  to  join — the  point 
at  which,  to  quote  Varensky's  words,  "The  safety 
of  the  journey  ends."  It  was  the  goal  of  every  man 
who  wrecks  himself  in  the  hope  that  he  may  save  a 
world. 

How  long  had  he  been  sitting  there  brooding?  He 
was  cold.  The  square  of  window  had  turned  from 
jet  to  gray.  Furtively  he  glanced  behind  him.  Anna 
was  gazing  down  on  him. 


VII 


She  was  dressed  for  a  journey,  muffled  in  furs. 
Her  left  hand  was  gloved;  her  right  extended.  His 
heart  turned  coward.  Surely  he  had  earned  his 
reward.  He  commenced  to  rise,  pushing  back  his 
chair.  The  steady  blueness  of  her  eyes  held  him. 

"Good-by,"  she  said.     "I  should  have  left  without 


340  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

saying  good-by,  if  I  had  not  known  I  could  trust 

you." 

"But  you  can  trust  me.  It's  because  you  can 
trust  me  that  you  must  stay.'* 

"I  can't  stay." 

"Why  not?" 

"We  made  a  bargain.  Do  you  remember?  That 
until  we  were  free,  we  would  play  the  game  by  him — 
that  we  would  even  guard  him  against  himself.  You 
told  me  once,  'I  wouldn't  be  friends  with  a  woman 
who  couldn't  be  loyal.'  I'm  trying  to  be  loyal." 
She  caught  her  breath.  "He's  gone." 

"Varensky?" 

She  nodded. 

"Where?" 

"To  die  for  us." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  the  heat  of  his  temp 
tation  vanished.  He  felt  accused  by  the  quixotic 
magnanimity  of  this  strange  creature,  half  prophet, 
half  charlatan,  whose  wife  he  had  coveted. 

"Once  I'd  have  been  glad  that  he  should  die,"  he 
confessed  slowly,  "but  not  now.  Food  has  done  far 
more  than  his  sacrifice  could  have  accomplished. 
Why  should  he  be  determined  to  die  now?" 

She  trusted  herself  to  come  closer,  standing  over 
him  and  giving  him  her  hand. 

"Perhaps  for  our  sakes.  Perhaps  for  his  own. 
Perhaps  in  the  hope  that  his  appearance  may  put 
a  stop  to  what's  left  of  the  fighting.  There  was  a 
wireless  last  night  which  he  kept  to  himself.  It  said 
that  skirmishing  was  developing  between  the  Poles 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  341 

and  the  Russian  refugees  in  the  No  Man's  Land 
beyond  Kovel.  It  was  after  he  had  read  it  that  he 
went  out.  I  waited  for  him  to  return — when  I 
guessed.  We've  all  misjudged  him.  Perhaps  we're 
still  misjudging  him.  Who  can  say  why  he's  gone? 
There's  nothing  gained  by  attributing  motives.  He 
wants  to  give  his  life.  He's  promised  he  would  so 
often ;  always  he's  been  thwarted.  He  owes  it  to  his 
honor.  Kovel  may  be  the  world's  last  battle — his 
final  chance." 

In  the  bare  room  the  dawn  was  spreading.  Hind- 
wood  rose  from  his  chair,  stretching  his  cramped 
body  and  gazing  at  the  map  with  its  safe  red  line 
of  flags. 

"Our  work  is  ended,"  he  said  quietly.  "Within  the 
next  few  hours  stronger  men  will  be  here  to  take 
control — a  commission  of  the  best  brains,  picked 
from  all  the  nations.  God  chose  us  to  be  His  stop 
gap,"  He  paused.  "After  having  been  His  instru 
ments  in  averting  a  world-catastrophe  to  speak  of 
things  personal  seems  paltry.  And  yet  my  love  for 
you  fills  all  my  thoughts.  I  leave  Budapest  a  bank 
rupt.  I  shall  have  to  start  life  afresh.  Your  love 
is  literally  my  sole  possession  and  I  have  no  right 
to  it." 

She  was  backing  towards  the  door,  retreating 
from  him.  He  stepped  over  to  the  window,  widening 
the  distance  that  separated  them. 

"Do  you  feel  more  secure  now?  You  needn't  fear 
me,"  he  reproached  her.  "Was  it  because  I  spoke 
of  our  love?  We  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of 


342  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

it.  We've  played  fair.  How  could  we  do  less  when 
Varensky  has  played  so  fair  by  us?  It's  for  our 
sakes  he's  gone,  that  he  may  free  us."  Then, 
"You're  setting  out  alone  on  a  journey.  Would 
you  mind  telling  me  its  object?" 

"You  know.  To  prevent  him.  To  catch  up  with 
him.  To  bring  him  back." 

"And  if  he  refuses?" 

"To  die  with  him." 

He  smiled  whimsically.  "The  vanishing  point! 
For  you,  with  your  high  standard  of  honor,  if  you 
were  to  overtake  it,  your  problem  would  be  solved. 
But  suppose  the  vanishing  point  eludes  you.  Sup 
pose  your  husband  agrees  to  live,  have  you  thought 
of  that  ?  It  means  that  you  and  I  will  never " 

With  an  imploring  gesture  she  cut  him  short.  "It 
means  that  you  and  I  will  never  learn  to  despise 
each  other.  It  means  that  I  shall  always  remember 
you  at  your  greatest,  as  I've  seen  you  in  the  last 
seven  days,  self-sacrificing,  brave  and  noble — so  self- 
forgetting  that  you  could  even  forget  the  woman  you 
adored." 

He  sank  his  head.  In  the  gray  square  of  window 
he  looked  old  and  haggard.  "It's  true,  and  yet  it's 
incredible:  if  we  were  to  allow  him  to  die,  we  should 

despise  each  other.  In  the  long  years "  He 

glanced  up.  "Though  you  were  willing  to  let  him 
and  I  won  you,  do  you  think  I  would  want  you?  Not 
that  way.  I'd  want  you  so  little  that  I'm  coming 
with  you  to  help  you  to  prevent  him." 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  343 

VIII 

Long  lines  of  neglected  tillage!  Deserted  farms! 
Broken  fences !  A  gray  expanse  of  sky !  Knots 
of  peasants  trekking  always  westward!  Panting 
cattle,  nearing  the  exhaustion  point !  Creaking 
carts !  Dawn  growing  whiter ;  day  growing  golden ; 
sunlight  fading ;  night  becoming  flecked  with  stars ! 
Always  the  rhythm  of  the  engine,  the  plunging  into 
the  distance,  the  impatient  urgency  to  thrust  for 
ward! 

It  had  been  useless  to  think  of  traveling  by  trains ; 
the  railways  were  too  congested.  Moreover,  they 
had  strongly  suspected  that  he  had  set  out  by  car. 
If  the  No  Man's  Land  beyond  Kovel  were  his  destina 
tion,  then  Cracow  would  lie  midway  on  his  journey. 
Cracow  was  one  of  the  strong-points  in  the  barri 
cade,  where  a  clump  of  red  flags  was  flying.  All 
the  traffic  was  escaping  from  the  danger.  If  he  had 
chosen  that  route,  there  would  be  definite  news  of 
him.  Any  one  traveling  towards  the  danger  could 
not  help  but  be  remarked. 

As  they  inquired  of  fugitives,  they  discovered  that 
two  cars  were  ahead  of  them.  The  first  contained  a 
madman,  with  eyes  green  as  emeralds  and  a  face 
white  and  set  as  a  mask;  the  second,  a  dark-haired 
woman,  beautiful  as  a  fallen  angel.  The  woman 
seemed  to  be  in  pursuit  of  the  man.  They  were,  per 
haps,  thirty  miles  apart.  They  had  thundered  by 


3M  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

into  the  imperiled  future  as  though  the  self-same 
devil  rode  behind  them. 

What  could  be  Santa's  purpose?  Anna  and  he 
argued  the  point,  sometimes  aloud,  more  often  in 
their  unuttered  thoughts.  All  their  old  doubts  con 
cerning  her  rose  up  rampant.  Was  she  a  Bolshevist 
agent,  hurrying  back  to  sell  the  last  of  her  secrets? 
Was  her  purpose  to  save  or  to  betray  Varensky? 

What  had  she  ever  wanted  from  him?  Had  she 
found  a  quality  in  his  self-destroying  idealism  that 
had  called  forth  her  pitying  worship?  In  her  own 
dark  way  had  she  enshrined  him  in  a  mysterious 
corner  of  her  heart?  Had  she  recognized  in  him  a 
childlike  weakness  that  had  compelled  her  protec 
tion?  Had  he  stood  in  the  twilight  of  her  life  for 
a  door  that  might  open  into  ultimate  redemption? 

Or  was  it  loneliness  that  had  made  her  follow  him 
— the  sure  knowledge  that  everything  was  ended? 
In  those  seven  days,  whilst  they  had  made  history 
together,  had  she  seen  something  that  had  tortured 
her?  That  she  was  not  wanted,  as  he  was  not 
wanted?  Was  it  despair  that  had  beckoned  her  into 
the  chaos  through  which  he  hurried  to  destruction? 

When  they  reached  Cracow  it  was  to  find  the  city 
deserted.  The  streets  by  which  they  entered  were 
deathly  silent;  the  doors  wide  open;  the  pavements 
strewn  with  furniture  which  owners  had  lacked  time 
to  rescue.  Here  and  there  were  carts  which  had 
collapsed,  and  thin  horses  which  had  died  in  harness. 
Even  cats  and  dogs  had  departed.  Terror  peered 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  345 

from  behind  the  blankness  of  windows.  It  was  like 
a  city  pillaged. 

Whatever  optimisms  they  had  entertained,  they 
knew  for  certain  now  that  war  had  started.  Out 
of  sight,  across  gray  wastes  to  the  eastward,  gray 
ranks  of  skeletons,  armed  with  nothing  but  disease, 
were  approaching.  The  dread  they  inspired  was  so 
great  that  outcasts,  only  a  shade  less  starving,  had 
stampeded  before  them. 

At  a  turn  they  came  to  the  railroad.  Here  their 
eyes  met  a  different  spectacle.  From  a  freight-train 
on  a  siding  men,  white  to  the  eyes  with  dust,  were 
rolling  barrels.  They  were  volunteers  recruited  from 
the  safer  nations — the  first  of  the  new  kind  of  army. 
They  were  piling  flour  where  once  they  would  have 
been  stacking  shells.  Hindwood  recognized  the  bar 
rels'  markings.  His  sense  of  tragedy  lightened. 
Laughing  down  into  his  companion's  eyes,  he 
shouted,  "Mine!  Look,  Anna.  Mine  that  I  meant 
to  sell !" 

A  short-haired  girl,  in  the  tattered  uniform  of 
the  Battalion  of  Death,  was  in  charge.  Coming  up 
to  the  car,  she  saluted  smartly.  Yes,  she  had  seen 
Varensky.  It  was  three  hours  since  he  had  passed. 
He  had  filled  up  with  water  and  gasolene,  gasolene 
having  arrived  on  the  supply-train.  He  had  left  for 
Brest-Litovsk,  stating  that  his  object  was  to  gain  a 
respite  for  the  barricade-builders.  He  proposed  to 
put  himself  at  the  head  of  the  famine-march  and  to 
check  the  rapidity  of  its  advance.  After  his  de- 


346  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

parture,  the  other  had  panted  up — the  dark-haired 
woman — only  an  hour  behind  him. 

Wasting  no  time  in  conversation,  Hindwood  imi 
tated  Varensky's  example.  He  was  dazed  for  want 
of  sleep — almost  nodding.  But  the  man  he  had  to 
save  was  ahead  of  him.  Having  filled  his  tanks  and 
made  sure  of  his  engine,  he  started  forward. 

They  were  throbbing  through  empty  streets  again, 
when  a  strange  sound  thrilled  the  silence — a 
trumpet-call,  which  rang  out  sharply  across  the 
housetops  and  broke  off  suddenly. 

Had  they  come?  He  slowed  down,  prepared  to 
wheel  about. 

Seeing  what  was  in  his  thoughts,  Anna  rested  her 
hand  on  his  arm  reassuringly. 

"It's  from  the  tower  of  St.  Mary's.  How  often 
I've  heard  it!  Ah,  there  it  is  again!"  Gazing  up 
and  bending  forward,  she  listened.  Then  she  spoke, 
as  though  addressing  some  one  who  walked  above  the 
city,  "Brave  fellow!  Though  they've  all  deserted, 
you've  stayed  on." 

"To  whom  are  you  talking?" 

She  explained  quickly.  Centuries  ago  the  Church 
of  St.  Mary's  had  been  an  outpost  of  Christendom, 
used  as  a  watch-tower  against  the  invading  Tartar; 
a  soldier  had  been  kept  continually  stationed  there 
to  give  warning  on  a  trumpet  of  the  first  approach 
of  danger.  In  the  fourteenth  century,  whilst  arous 
ing  the  city,  the  trumpeter  had  been  struck  in  the 
throat  by  an  arrow.  His  call  had  faltered,  rallied 
and  sunk.  With  his  dying  breath  he  had  sounded 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  347 

a  final  blast,  which  had  broken  off  short.  The 
broken  call  had  saved  Cracow.  Ever  since,  to  com 
memorate  his  faithfulness,  there  had  never  been  an 
hour,  day  or  night,  when  his  broken  trumpet-call, 
ending  abruptly  in  an  abyss  of  silence,  had  not  been 
sounded  from  the  tower. 

Hindwood  leant  across  the  wheel,  staring  dreamily 
before  him.  "It  might  have  been  his  voice — Varen- 
sky's.  He's  like  that — a  dying  trumpeter,  sounding 
a  last  warning.  I  almost  believe  in  him.  It's  too 
late » 

"It  may  not  be,"  she  whispered. 

Night  was  falling.  Straining  his  eyes  to  keep 
awake,  he  drove  impetuously  on,  forcing  a  path 
through  the  opposing  shadows. 


IX 


How  they  had  arrived  it  would  have  puzzled  him 
to  tell.  He  had  vague  memories  of  sunsets  and 
dawns ;  of  times  when  sleep  had  drugged  him ;  of  un- 
refreshed  awakenings. 

They  had  reached  B rest-Li tovsk,  the  city  fatal 
to  the  Russians,  which  the  Czar  had  always  super- 
stitiously  avoided.  Like  Cracow,  it  was  deserted. 
Unlike  Cracow,  it  was  a  pile  of  ruins.  Seven  times 
in  seven  years  it  had  been  bombarded  and  captured. 
Beneath  an  iron  sky,  it  listened  for  the  tramp  of  the 
latest  conqueror. 

Hindwood  drew  forth  his  map.    It  was  over  a  hun- 


348  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

dred  versts  to  Kovel;  he  doubted  whether  his  gaso 
lene  would  take  him.  There  was  nowhere  where  he 
could  replenish  his  supply.  Before  him  lay  a  No 
Man's  Land  from  which  everything  had  perished — 
behind  a  silence  from  which  everything  had  escaped. 
To  continue  his  pursuit  was  folly.  There  was  no 
promise  of  success  to  allure  him;  of  Varensky  and 
Santa  he  had  lost  all  trace.  He  glanced  at  his 
drowsing  companion ;  he  had  pledged  his  word  to  her. 
Reluctantly  he  climbed  into  his  seat  and  started  for 
ward. 

The  suicidal  stupidity  of  war — that  was  the 
thought  that  absorbed  him.  Every  sight  that  his 
eyes  encountered  emphasized  its  madness.  Yet  be 
yond  the  horizon,  where  distance  seemed  to  termin 
ate,  men  were  killing  one  another.  He  understood  at 
last  Varensky's  passion  to  die.  When  all  else  had 
failed,  to  offer  one's  body  was  the  only  protest. 

The  landscape  was  growing  featureless.  Rivers 
had  overflowed.  The  labor  of  centuries  was  sinking 
beneath  morass.  Villages  and  post-houses  had  been 
destroyed;  woods  torn  by  shell-fire.  Stationed 
along  the  route,  like  buoys  guarding  a  channel,  black 
and  white  verst-poles  gleamed  monotonously.  On 
either  side  stretched  a  never-ending  graveyard, 
marked  by  rough  crosses  or  inverted  rifles.  Down 
this  pitiless  straight  road  had  marched  the  seven 
invasions — Russian,  German,  Polish,  Bolshevist, 
each  with  a  dream  of  glory  in  its  eyes.  With  the 
victory  lost  and  the  dream  forgotten,  they  mold- 
ered  companionably. 


THE  VANISHING  POINT  349 

It  was  half-way  to  Kovel  that  he  first  noticed 
what  was  happening;  behind  scrub  and  fallen  trees 
it  had  probably  been  happening  for  some  time.  It 
was  a  gray  wolf,  grown  bold,  which  first  drew  his 
attention.  Like  a  dog,  seeking  its  master,  it  came 
trotting  down  the  road.  After  that  they  came  in 
packs — not  only  wolves,  but  every  other  kind  of 
untamed  animal.  It  was  as  though  they  were  fleeing 
before  a  drive — the  tremendous  drive  of  a  famished 
nation.  In  their  dread  they  seemed  to  have  post 
poned  their  right  to  prey.  Hunter  and  quarry 
journeyed  side  by  side,  their  enmities  in  abeyance 
in  their  common  terror  of  the  enmity  which  stalked 
behind. 

Hindwood  had  grown  used  to  the  spectacle,  when 
suddenly  he  was  startled  by  another  sight — a  child. 
A  child  so  matted  and  neglected,  that  he  scarcely 
recognized  him  as  human.  His  feet  were  swathed  in 
balls  of  rags.  He  limped  painfully,  walking  among 
the  animals  and  staring  straight  before  him.  At 
shortening  intervals  others  followed,  till  at  last  they 
came  in  crowds. 

Beyond  Kovel,  where  commences  the  crumbling 
trench-system  in  which  the  vanished  Russo-German 
armies  remained  locked  for  so  many  years,  he  came 
across  his  first  trace  of  Varensky — an  abandoned 
car  with  a  broken  axle.  Varensky  must  be  on  foot, 
not  far  ahead.  He  had  passed  another  mile  when 
his  own  car  halted;  the  gasolene  had  given  out. 
With  the  ceasing  of  the  engine  he  caught  another 
sound — the  popping  of  rifle-fire.  It  dawned  on  him 


350  THE  VANISHING  POINT 

that  the  trenches  of  the  dead  battlefield  were  again 
inhabited.  He  had  been  driving  straight  into  the 
heart  of  the  fighting. 

The  firing  was  drawing  nearer.  The  Monarchists 
were  falling  back.  A  bullet  whizzed  over  his  head 
and  pinged  into  a  mass  of  rusted  wire. 

All  that  followed  happened  in  a  flash.  He  had 
seized  Anna  and  rushed  with  her  to  cover.  From 
where  he  watched,  he  could  see  soldiers  retreating, 
and  the  tops  of  steel  helmets  bobbing  above  the 
trenches.  Of  the  advancing  host  he  could  see 
nothing. 

Suddenly  from  behind  a  mound,  a  man  with  a 
peaked  head  sprang  up.  He  was  dressed  as  a 
civilian.  He  commenced  to  run  up  the  road  towards 
the  enemy,  waving  something  white.  Immediately, 
from  another  place  of  hiding,  a  woman  leapt  up  and 
followed.  It  was  as  though  on  the  instant  truce  had 
been  declared;  a  tranquillity  of  amazement  settled 
down. 

As  he  reached  what  appeared  to  be  No  Man's 
Land,  he  drew  himself  erect,  with  expanded  chest, 
and  commenced  to  sweep  his  arms  in  the  gestures  of 
oratory.  It  was  dumb  show ;  it  was  impossible  to 
hear  what  was  being  said.  While  he  was  speaking, 
the  woman  caught  up  with  him  and  flung  herself  upon 
him,  making  a  shield  of  her  body. 

Curiosity  satisfied,  both  sides  fired.  The  man  and 
woman  crumpled.  Fighting  recommenced. 

THE  END 


Pub.,  by  S.   H.   Kress  *  Co. 


'"*B-      N>      . 

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